On Life, Love & Accidental Adventures

A Tale of Two Duchesses

2011-12-29T12:33:00.001-08:00

The duchesse de Gramont-Caderousse

Several years ago, I visited the Nelson-Atkins Museum in Kansas City, Missouri and discovered a portrait of Marie-Gabrielle de Sinéty, the Duchesse de Gramont-Caderousse by Elizabeth Vigree Le Brun.

I have gazed upon thousands of portraits in my travels and throughout my years of research, but something about this lady's face captured me. Perhaps it was her delicate nose, flushed cheeks, and open, expressive brown eyes that gave her an air of innocence and insouciance.

I confess, the fashionista in me coveted her black velvet jacket with the slashed sleeves. I adored the way the sleeves were fastened to the jacket with red silk bows. Who doesn't find an ensemble in red and black utterly dramatic and appealing?

But there was something else that drew me to the portrait, that had me standing there, gazing at it for nearly a quarter of an hour. A familiarity that seemed to haunt me...

A Faithful Friend
I would soon learn that the Duchesse de Gramont-Caderousse was one of Marie Antoinette's friends, a trusted member of her coterie. This discovery sparked imaginations of the women strolling arm-in-arm through gardens at le hameau, pausing to inhale the perfumed aroma of a rose.

A few years after first gazing at the Duchesse's lovely face, I met a brown-haired French beauty who possessed startlingly similar expressive brown eyes and an equally delicate nose. I felt an instant familiarity, as I had felt when gazing at the Vigee Le Brun painting. I didn't know it then, but the French beauty would become my best friend, the most trusted member of my coterie.

But this is not another of my stories about the startling nature of serendipity. It is not a tale of odd coincidences.

The Two Duchesses
This is a piece about two rather privileged duchesses. One would live a long life, the other would end her privileged days with her neck in a blood spattered lunette (the moon shaped recess where victims of the guillotine would place their neck). Both would witness unspeakable violence.

After discovering Elizabeth Vigee Le Brun's portrait of Marie-Gabrielle de Sinéty, I found myself wanting to know more about the pretty duchesse. Naturally, I turned to Souvenirs: The Memoirs of Elizabeth Vigee Le Brun.

The artist confessed that she had a prejudice against hair powder and went on to write, "I persuaded the lovely Duchesse de Grammont-Caderousse not to wear any when she was painted. Her hair was as black as night, and I parted it in front and arranged it in careless locks. After my seance, which finished at dinner-time, the Duchesse did not alter her head-dress, and went to the theater without altering it. Such a pretty woman setting the fashion caused it soon to become popular."

I noticed that Vigee Le Brun spelled the duchesse's name Grammont and not Gramont, as had been printed on the plaque in the museum. With no disrespect intended toward the venerated curators at the Nelson-Atkins, I assumed they had spelled the duchesse's name wrong and elected to continue my research for the Duchesse de Grammont-Caderousse - with two M's.

Vigee Le Brun does not mention the lovely duchesse again, so I turned to Simon Schama's Citizens. Then, on page 827, I read something that made my heart drop.

"Sharing their tumbril were the Princesse de Lubomirski, the Duchesses de Chatelet and de Grammont..."

Grammont. Spelled with two M's.

If the Duchesse de Grammont had been in a tumbril (a cart used to transport the condemned to the guillotine), she had surely died during the Revolution. I shuddered to imagine that sweet-faced woman, with her basket of fruits and flowers, a victim of such a horrific death. I imagined her red satin slippers slipping on the blood soaked sawdust, her wide eyes glistening with tears.

The image filled me with an incomprehensible melancholia.

Fortunately (or unfortunately, depending on your point of view), there were two duchesses of similar name. The Duchesse de Gramont-Caderousse and the Duchesse de Grammont (also, confusingly, spelled Gramont, with one M).

A little more sleuthing and I learned the Marie-Gabrielle de Sinéty, AKA the Duchesse de Gramont-Caderousse, was not the duchesse in the tumbril.

The Duchesse de Gramont

The Other Duchesse Gramont
The lady who - on a bright Spring day in 1794 - found herself an unfortunate occupant in a rough wooden cart, crushed between a haughty princess and a trembling duchesse, was none other than Béatrix de Choiseul-Stainville, duchesse de Grammont. Béatrix was not nearly as lovely as Marie-Gabrielle. Her portrait was not painted by Vigee Le Brun but by Alexander Roslin, an eighteenth century Swedish court painter.

Less-than-lovely Béatrix was the wife of the duc de Gramont and the daughter of François Joseph de Choiseul, marquis de Stainville, a diplomat. She is mentioned in the memoirs of the lothario, soldier, and politician, Armand Louis de Gontaut-Biron, the duc de Lauzun. (In fact, Lauzun once fancied himself in love with Beatrix). Madame de Grammont is mentioned in twenty different passages in Lauzun's Memoirs.

She was also a member of Marie Antoinette's inner-circle, having proved her loyalty early on in a skirmish with Madame du Barry that had tongues all around Versailles wagging! One night at the theater, Béatrix refused to make room for Marie Antoinette's rival, Madame du Barry. The king's mistress complained and had Béatrix banished from court. Marie Antoinette appealed to her grandfather-in-law and Béatrix was allowed to return.

If one searches, there are quite a few references to the Duchesse de Grammont/Gramont (for it is spelled both ways) in various contemporary memoirs and letters.

This less-than-lovely duchesse made a mark that the passage of time did little to erase.

The Elusive Duchesse de Gramont-Caderousse
Vigee Le Brun's lovely duchesse, with almond shaped eyes and slightly parted lips as if in the throes of a self-conscious smile, proves to be far more elusive. Time, it would seem, has nearly obliterated her mark.

She was born in Marie-Gabrielle de Sinéty in 1760. She married André Joseph Hippolyte de Gramont-Vacheres, the duc de Gramont-Caderousse in February of 1779. The duc, her husband, was Lord of Cap-Cornu, governor of La Tour-de-Crest, and a Knight of Malta. They had four children. From her family tree, I learned three of her children grew to adulthood and had children of their own. She died on April 24, 1832 at the Château de Caderousse.

There are no memoirs detailing her exploits through Europe or her dangerous liaisons with dashing lotharios. I could unearth no clues as to how she survived the bloody Revolution that took the lives of her king, queen, and the other Duchesse de Grammont.

Her portrait is her enduring mark. Her secrets lie hidden in her dreamy gaze. Her slightly parted lips tease us with tales that will not be told...

Vigee Le Brun's portrait of the duchesse de
Gramont-Caderousse in the fabulous
Nelson-Atkins Museum, Kansas City.
Shot yesterday by Leah Marie Brown.

CLICK HERE TO VIEW A LARGE, DETAILED IMAGE OF VIGEE LE BRUN'S PAINTING OF THE DUCHESSE DE GRAMONT-CADEROUSSE

Confessions of a Seasonal Crafter: Marie Madness

2011-12-16T14:42:00.000-08:00

I'll admit it: I am a seasonal Martha Addict. Each year, as autumn brushes the world in an ochre hue, I find myself inexplicably drawn to Martha Stewart, that peddler of crafty pastimes. I know I should focus my energies on writing and home obligations, but the temptation becomes too great. As the air turns crisp and crackly leaves litter the sidewalks, I suddenly start watching Martha's television show and reading her magazines. I will sit with a plate of Fuji Caramel Apple Cookies with Brown Sugar Icing (a Martha recipe) balanced precariously on my lap, watching as the Gandhi of Gardening, the Diva of Domesticity single-handedly builds a dovecote out of Popsicle sticks and fills it with birds she humanely captures with silken ropes or bakes a million puff pastries which she then uses to recreate the Taj Mahal.

I've watched Martha Stewart successfully try her hand at cake decorating, sewing, scrap booking, woodworking, pottery, painting, and gardening, and I always walk away thinking, "I could do that! I should do that!"

Usually, I don't.

I am not a crafty sorta gal. It's not that I don't like crafts, I'm just not that good at them. (Truthfully, I have never been good at crafts. My first grade teacher wrote one, terse word on my report card to describe my efforts with scissors: "hopeless". I failed my high school Home Ec class when the elastic on the shorts I was required to make and wear to broke. Humiliating experience, that.) Some might even say I am artistically challenged when it comes to crafting.

But something strange happens to me in the Fall. Maybe it is the bright colored leaves on all of the trees that sparks an irrepressible optimism in me; or maybe there's some sort of bacteria in autumn-harvested apples that affects the memory ( I do eat a lot of those Fuji Apple Cookies and consume my fair share of cider). Whatever the explanation, each October I find myself standing in Michaels Craft Store, clutching the handle of a basket laden with hot glue sticks, glitter paint, and assorted accouterments, thinking, "If Martha can do it, so can I!"

One year, Martha made a stunning Christmas tree centerpiece using Styrofoam, metallic ribbons, and jewel tipped pins. It seemed simple enough: cut the ribbons to a pre-measured length, loop them, stick them into the Styrofoam cone and then - VOILA! - you have a stunning hand-crafted Christmas Tree that will wow your family and mystify your neighbors.

I love Martha, but she lied. (Forgive the offensive language but the Ribbon Tree Debacle still upsets me) I cut the ribbon into premeasured strips, looped them, stuck them in the Styrofoam cone, but there was no VOILA! I did not get a stunning centerpiece. My lopsided tree with tattered, randomly pinned ribbons looked like the artistic endeavor of a drunk toddler (not that I've ever seen a drunk toddler). It was not a good thing.

Since the Ribbon Tree Debacle, there have been German glass glitter covered gourds (messy, expensive, and, frankly, tacky), handmade Chenille slippers (True story: I tried to donate them to a local homeless shelter for teens but the coordinator kindly rejected the slippers because she said they were "sad"), and assorted embellished canisters, chocolate candies, and dipped candles.

It was my painful and scarring attempt at candle-making that had me vowing to break my Martha Habit and start living a clean life, free from the clutches of that crafty, diabolical Guru of Glitter. I told myself my pride was greater than any transitory nesting instinct.

This October, I watched the leaves change from Granny Smith green to Candy Apple red all the while fighting the nefarious desire to watch Martha. There would be no marzipan Mayflower on my table at Thanksgiving, nor would there be a side dish of humiliation as another of my crafts crumbled, imploded, or spontaneously burst into flames before my eyes.

The technicolor days of October faded into the monochromatic days of November without a single gourd glittered or bedazzled. I didn't watch Martha on television. I resisted the urge to listen to her on Sirius radio. I averted my gaze when I walked down the magazine aisle in the grocery store. As I packed up my turkey platter and gravy boat, I felt positively euphoric that I had nearly made it through the Fall without attempting a craft. I imagined myself at a 12-Step Program, standing before a semi-circle of fellow addicts, saying, "My name is Leah Marie and I have been clean of crafting for 11 months and 8 days."

But before you sound the applause and cue the cheers, notice I used the word nearly.

That's right, brothers and sisters, I recently suffered a relapse.

Earlier this week, I stepped off the wagon and into a Hobby Lobby. Like any addict, my overwhelming longing lead me down the path of temptation and delivered me far from the straight and narrow.

Although I hadn't gone to the mecca of crafting stores on a Martha Mission, I was still there to satisfy my twisted needs (to craft).

A few years ago I saw a beautiful flocked Christmas tree decorated with baubles inspired by my beloved queen, Marie Antoinette. Since then, I have dreamt of having a similar tree.

So there I was, pushing a squeaky, right-pulling cart through the cluttered aisles of my local Hobby Lobby, silently telling myself that I had nothing to feel guilty about, that one little indulgence did not an addict make.

Soon, I was happily skipping through the aisles, capriciously tossing bottles of paints and ornaments into the cart, imagining the grand, opulent flocked tree adorned with baubles that would grace my office.

It was going to be magnificent, marvelous, très fantastique! Maybe I would even send a photo to Martha herself...and she would be so impressed she would invite me to be on her show...and we would go to Laudree after filming to sip tea and eat macaroons!

Before I knew it, my cart was loaded with an expensive tree and hundreds of dollars in baubles and bling. That's when I realized I was in trouble, standing alone, watching the wagon drive away from me. The first step to recovery is acknowledging you're sick, right?

So, I flagged down an older woman with silvery hair and a kindly smile.

"Help me, won't you?" I asked, a note of desperation in my voice.

I explained to her my tendency to over-commit, overspend, and over-estimate my abilities when it came to crafting and then I told her all about my passion for Marie Antoinette and the beautiful baroque Christmas tree.

She politely listened to my confession and then tilted her head and said, "Does it have to be a tree? What if you made a wreath instead? It's smaller, easier to manage, and much cheaper."

I swear a beam of light shone down from Heaven onto the head of that dear soul. And I am pretty certain I heard a choir of angels singing.

What she said next had to have been divinely inspired.

"Just plan it out and take your time, Dear, and I am sure it will look lovely."
I thanked the woman, returned most of the items in my cart, and headed to the cash registers. I already had an wreath in storage that was a perfect candidate for a little re-purposing.

I started as soon as I got home. I gathered supplies and then made a list of the steps I intended to take to transform my dusty, old bourgeois wreath into something a princess would covet.

For three days, I sprayed, sprayed, sprayed, glued, decorated, embellished, twisted, and tortured the plastic pine needles. Finally, I stepped back and looked at my creation and do you know what? I was pleased, maybe even a little proud.

My flocked wreath looked fluffy and festive. The hand painted and beaded ornaments looked store-bought. Nothing melted, exploded, shrank, crumbled, toppled or spontaneously burst into flames.

So now, for the first time in nearly fifteen years, I can proudly proclaim, "My name is Leah Marie Brown and I am a seasonal Martha Stewart Addict."

'Tis the Season for a Marie Christmas - 2011 Edition

2011-11-29T07:32:00.001-08:00

Do you know which of the articles and blog posts I have written about Marie Antoinette is the most popular (besides The Royal Dildo)? The answer might surprise you.

You would think my most popular blog posts would be the hilariously titled Flatulent Fatties & Monsieur Fancy Pants: Political Cartoons in 18th Century France or the intriguing My Unexpected Encounter with Marie Antoinette, but they were not.

My most popular post about Marie Antoinette, the one that gets hundreds of hits per day, is 'Tis the Season for Marie Antoinette, wherein I reviewed numerous Marie Antoinette-inspired goodies available for purchase.

The popularity of that piece has encouraged me to write another one, updated with loads of royal booty fit for a queen. So, without further ado, here are some fabulous Marie Antoinette-inspired creations available for purchase (and just in time for Christmas)!

'Tis The Season for Marie Antoinette ~ 2011 Edition

Marie Cherie Cosmetic Bag

If this darling little cosmetic tote had been available in the eighteenth century, Léonard Autie, Marie Antoinette's coiffure, surely would have carried his powders and pomades in it! TokyoMilk makes several other Marie Antoinette-inspired products, including a pocket mirror, perfume, and bubble bath.

CLUE! Juicy Couture

The classic board game gets a royal makeover! From Amazon: "Calling all nice girls who like stuff! You've been summoned by her Majesty Juicy Couture for an exclusive Fashion show "preview" of the new spring line only to arrive and find out that an essential part of the new juicy line is missing! Is is an act of sabotage? You must discover what couture item in the line was stolen, who took it, and where the item is hidden before the fashion show begins the next day! Do you have the smarts to solve this crime of couture and save the show?" Can you say, "Marie Antoinette themed Game Night?"

Have Yourself a Marie Christmas Ornament

This charming handmade decoupage ornament was made using an image from a Christmas Card of Marie Antoinette and a reproduction of an 18th century wallpaper. A beautiful red bow, red glitter glass, and an ornamental wax seal complete the ornament. This ornament and many other Marie Antoinette inspired Christmas ornaments are available on the Etsy store Have A Marie Christmas.

Blush Hush Photo by Chezjolly

This beautiful photograph of pink chairs once owned by Marie Antoinette was taken at the Petite Trianon at the Palace of Versailles in France. This image would look stunning mounted with an eggshell pink matt and framed in antique gold. Can't you just see it hanging in your boudoir?

Let Them Eat Chocolate Cherry Cake Candle

This chocolate cherry cake scented soy candle comes in a darling tin embellished with an image of Marie Antoinette and German glitter glass from the Royal Bebe Shoppe.

Marie Antoinette Tea from Paris in a Cup!

Last year I featured Ladurée's tin of Marie Antoinette Loose Leaf Tea as a must-have. My best friend gave me a canister of the tea for my birthday this year (Merci Fanny!) and I thought it was so utterly delicious I intended to feature it again this year. However, Ladurée's website is down for redesign, which means the only way you can score some of their queenly tea is to visit one of their stores (or get yourself a best friend as generous and fabulous mine). So, this year I am featuring Marie Antoinette Tea from Paris in a Cup! The tea is a royal blend of hibiscus, sultanas, berries, black currant, rose hips, apple, chamomile, and sunflower blossoms and is naturally decaffeinated!

The Salon of Madame Necker

A "juicy tell-all" written by a decendent of Suzanne Necker, the wife of Louis XVI's Minister of Finance. Madame Necker was a writer, brilliant salon hostess, and the mother of Madame de Staël (an author, society hostess, and arch-enemy of Napoleon Bonaparte).

Marie Antoinette: Les musiques d'une reine

At first glance, some might mistake this round, shiny plastic disc as nothing more than a CD of Rococo Music, but it is actually a vehicle which allows one to travel through time to a palace and convent in eighteenth century Versailles, France. Whenever I listen to the haunting, enchanting music on this disc, I need only close my eyes and I am sitting on a pew in a convent in pre-revolutionary France or gliding through the Hall of Mirrors at Versailles. This is a MUST OWN for Marie Antoinette enthusiasts.

Click on the video below to listen to

music from Les Musiques d'une reine

Queen of Flower Rain Boots

When I visited Scotland last summer, the damp weather and my frequent desire to hike through the swampy highlands sent me on a frantic search for authentic Wellies (I only packed strappy sandals and fashionable walking sneakers). I found two pairs in my size at a little store in Inverness: one was black and the other pink. Which do you think I chose? I'll bet you said "pink." Well, prepare yourself for a shock: I chose the black pair. I adored the pink pair but they didn't match my purple and black rain slicker and I am a bit OCD when it comes to matching. Yes, my OCD over-rode my penchant for pink. BUT, if the Marie Antoinette-inspired rain boots pictured above had been available, I would have risked committing a fashion faux pas and clashed. You can bet these Queenly Wellies are at the TOP of my Christmas Wish List!

Check back, I will be adding Have Yourself a Marie Little Christmas ~ Part Two soon! In the meantime, I would like to wish you, the most fabulous blog readers, a Happy, Blessed Holidays!

30-Day Photo Challenge

2011-11-28T06:09:00.000-08:00

Day 25, Sunflare ~ This is an old building in downtown
Kansas City.

Day 26, Something Old ~ A barn near my house. I call
this one "Technology Looming" because the airport tower can
be seen looming the background behind the barn.

Day 27, After Dark - Watching for Santa

30 Day Photo Challenge

2011-11-22T05:54:00.000-08:00

Balancing a writing career and motherhood has been an overwhelming endeavor lately. I feel like I am running in a greased-up hamster wheel while wearing stiletto Christian Louboutins. It hasn't been pretty! Needless to say, my blog has suffered. I have kept up on the 30 Day Photography Challenge though and would like to share some of the pictures I have taken. Hopefully, Santa will bring me a good pair of track shoes so I can maneuver that hamster wheel more efficiently in the future (and write more blog posts).

Day 9, Distance ~ In My 'Hood

Day 10, Favorite Color ~ Pink, Of Course

Day 11, Flowers ~ Dried

Day 12, Pretty Pattern ~ Building Downtown

Day 13, My Shoes ~ Casual Friday

Day 14, Clouds ~ Wishing for Clouds (and Hawaii)

Day 15, Someone I Love ~ Sunday Paper
(Molly, my pup)

Day 16, What I Ate ~ An Apple a Day

Day 17, What I Read ~ The Voracious Reader
(or, On My Nightstand)

Day 18, Trees ~ Spooky Tree in My Backyard

Day 19, Reflection ~ Through a Glass Brightly

30-Day Photography Challenge ~ Day 8, Technology

2011-11-08T14:20:00.000-08:00

The challenge today was to take a photograph of something that represented technology. Since today (Tuesday) was my day to stay home and catch up on cleaning, cooking, and baking (The Triad of a Domestic Goddess' Existence), this proved to be a true challenge for me. I got to thinking about all of the remarkable inventions that have been created in the last 100, 50, 25, and even 10 years and I wasn't sure what to photograph. Ultimately, I opted for the vacuum cleaner.

Thank you Gods of Technology. Without you, and your wonderfully divine gift of vacuum cleaners, I would have to wear my heels to go to lunch or shopping. Instead, I get to wear them to clean my floors. Ah, bliss. I truly am a blessed housewife, aren't I?

Photography Challenge, Day 7: Something New

2011-11-07T08:47:00.000-08:00

Des Saints

Last week I agreed to take part in a 30-Day Photography Challenge (see previous post for details). Today the challenge was to post a photograph of something new. I decided to post a photo some Christmas ornaments I made last night.

I made these ornaments using pages torn from an old (1863) French book on the Life of Saints. Actually, an interesting story goes along with these ornaments. I went to an antique store and asked if they had any old French books. The owner said there were over 170 vendors in the building and she didn't know what they each sold, but she vaguely waved me toward the back, right corner of the store. I hunted all over the first floor but didn't find anything. Finally, on the bottom floor, I found five books in French. Two of the books were extremely rare and cost hundreds of dollars. Three were part of a set but the vendor kindly agreed to sell me one. I paid for the book without even looking at the title. It wasn't until later in the day when I noticed the title: Vie des Saints. I had to smile that the book I bought to tear up and make Christmas ornaments was on the life of Saints. What are the odds of that? Serendipty at work again, perhaps?

These ornaments are available for sale at Etsy store Have A Marie Christmas

Happy Birthday Marie Antoinette (and to Moi Aussi!)

2011-11-02T11:34:00.000-07:00

On this grand day in history, two fabulous women were born (centuries apart, and yet, forever linked, it would seem).

On a cold, windy night on the second day in November in the year 1755, Marie Antoinette was born.
And on an unusually warm night, also on the second day in November but in the year 1968, I was born.

To commemorate these historic events, I have made a short movie. Take a look, won't you?

So what does a Princess-in-Training, a fabulous follower of Marie Antoinette, do to celebrate her birthday? I would like to tell you I am visiting a Spa or attending an opulent soiree thrown in my honor, but, alas, that would be a lie. Nope, this year I am celebrating in a low-key way. I am staying in my pajamas, reading, and eating (cake, of course).

I am also taking part in a 30 Day Photo Challenge with a group of friends. We follow this chart and each day we take and post a photo.

Today we are supposed to take a picture titled "What I Wore." Obviously the 30 Day Photo Challenge folks didn't consider my plan to wear my flannel "Frog Prince" jammies all day when they created this chart.

In my birthday suit, drinking Marie Antoinette
Tea from Ladurée and reading my new book,
while Molly, my devoted schnoodle is looks on

I felt a little guilty about hanging around in my jammies after taking this photo. I mean, it's not very glamorous, not very Marie Antoinette-ish. So, I primped and preened for a few minutes and then snapped this one (Hey, the 30 Day Photo Challenge geniuses didn't say it was not permissible to take two photos per day...I've always been an over-achiever).

I am off now, on a hunt to find delicious cupcakes (If I slip back into my jammies before leaving, do you think the bakers will still serve me?) Au revoir!

A Masqued Lady

2011-10-31T05:30:00.000-07:00

Happy Halloween!

"Halloween's origins date back to the ancient Celtic festival of Samhain (pronounced sow-in). The Celts, who lived 2,000 years ago in the area that is now Ireland, the United Kingdom and northern France, celebrated their new year on November 1. This day marked the end of summer and the harvest and the beginning of the dark, cold winter, a time of year that was often associated with human death. Celts believed that on the night before the new year, the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead became blurred. On the night of October 31 they celebrated Samhain, when it was believed that the ghosts of the dead returned to earth. In addition to causing trouble and damaging crops, Celts thought that the presence of the otherworldly spirits made it easier for the Druids, or Celtic priests, to make predictions about the future. For a people entirely dependent on the volatile natural world, these prophecies were an important source of comfort and direction during the long, dark winter.

To commemorate the event, Druids built huge sacred bonfires, where the people gathered to burn crops and animals as sacrifices to the Celtic deities. During the celebration, the Celts wore costumes, typically consisting of animal heads and skins, and attempted to tell each other's fortunes. When the celebration was over, they re-lit their hearth fires, which they had extinguished earlier that evening, from the sacred bonfire to help protect them during the coming winter." Quoted from History.com

Druids. Bonfires. Celtic deities. That's all great, but for me Halloween is about one thing: the costumes!

My penchant for pretend started when I was still in Pampers. I am told that as a toddler, I often got into my mother's cosmetics and even cut my hair on more than one occassion. Some might view such antics as mischievious, but I like to think the inner-thesbian in me was trying to get out.

The author at 2.5 years old, refusing to
wear her Easter dress because she
wants to wear her Halloween costume.

Through the years, I have dressed up as a Greek Goddess, Hobo, Werewolf, Flower Fairy, Ghoul, Civil War Maiden, and, Marie Antoinette!

Me, striking a pose as a Civil War Maiden

Me as a Flower Fairy

I have always dreamt of being a guest at a Masquerade Ball, like the kind held in Paris during Marie Antoinette's first years in France. Unfortunately, none of my friends nurture the same dream. So, this Halloween, I decided to dress as a Masquerade Go-er - complete with ballgown, gloves, domino, and mask! I hope I don't frighten my new neighbors!

Are you dressing up this Halloween? If so, what are you dressing up as?

Have a Marie Christmas!

2011-10-16T19:20:00.001-07:00

Have a Marie Christmas with these fabulous, handmade ornaments inspired by our beloved French Queen and designed to look like a vintage holiday bauble! Made using original artwork, vintage decorative papers, and a wax seal, these are tres charmant!

IF YOU CAN'T RULE THE WORLD, YOU MIGHT AS WELL RULE THE HOLIDAYS with these adorable Napoleon inspired Christmas ornaments. Made using rare, vintage French Brandy labels and metallic paper and finished with a wax seal.

Available on Etsy.

Dunnottar: Truly Romantic

2011-10-10T10:02:00.000-07:00

On a sunny day many years ago, in a crowded Barnes and Noble in Hilton Head, South Carolina, I met a woman who was destined to become one my best friends. Fueled by caffeinated beverages, Cindy and I chatted for hours, squealing each time we discovered shared interests (writing, travel, ghosts, 80s music, and photography) and coincidences (we had eerily similar childhoods and had the same big, blond beach hair in our 20s).

One of the things I remember most about our first meeting was Cindy's unbridled enthusiasm for Scotland. As I shared stories about my travels in la belle France, Cindy shared stories about her journeys to Scotland. One place in particular that truly captured her imagination (and eventually mine) was Dunnottar Castle. The ancient, clifftop castle located on the eastern coast of Scotland was, in fact, the setting of her first novel, Spirited Away.

As the years passed, Cindy and I became the closest of friends. We also became travel partners who enthusiastically took memorable and outrageous trips.

This past summer, Cindy took me to her favorite place in the world: Dunnottar Castle.

After years of listening to her describe the craggy cliffs and crumbling stones, I was anxious to experience the essence of her hallowed place.

Though, I must confess, after spending two weeks hiking through Scotland's golden gorse-covered hills and around her beautiful but decrepit monuments, I was a little numb. It would take a lot to wow me.

My senses were overwhelmed, my extremities were freezing (50 degrees in July, seriously?), and it was raining (again)!

After rounding a narrow bend, Dunnottar loomed ahead of us, precariously perched on a cliff, surrounded by the sea. It took my breath away.

I was wowed!

We parked in a little lot and made the lonely trek to castle. I was cold and wet but invigorated by my first view of my best friend's dream castle.

As we trudged along in contented silence, I wondered if the fortification would live up to my expectations. After all, Cindy was an extremely talented writer who had woven a thrilling tale of romance set in Dunnottar.

We were almost to the entrance when we heard the haunting wail of a bagpipe. And then, right before our eyes, a beautiful bride in a fluttery white gown, her red hair spilling down her back, materialized as if out of...Thin Air.

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Highland Bride by Leah Marie Brown

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Highland Wedding by Leah Marie Brown

Good Eatin', Nawlins Style!

2011-10-03T06:07:00.000-07:00

On a sultry July morning, a few years before Katrina blew into town, a friend and I wandered into the frenetic, powder-sugar dusted Cafe du Monde for an early cup of coffee and the pastries we had heard so much about. We were hot, sweaty, and more than a little worn out from having hoofed all over the historic district. It would take more than a few Dunkin Donuts to revive our exhausted, jaded spirits and a whole lot more than a Krispee Kream to skewer our skepticism.

The pastries needed to be fresh, hot, and Paris-pretty to impress us.

What we had that morning (several plates of steaming, sinfully-sweet, perfectly-powdered beignets) were tiny pillows of pastry perfection. The beignets were so good, we made several more early morning trips to Cafe du Monde during our stay in New Orleans.

Once home, I experienced a serious post-perfect-beignet let-down. Krispee Kream no longer cut it.

I was thrilled when I discovered I could buy Cafe du Monde's beignet mix online. I ordered several boxes, stocked up on a truck-load of powdered sugar, and anxiously waited by my mailbox. When the much-coveted beignet mix was finally delivered, I wasted no time in firing up the oil and brewing a pot of coffee.

I was very pleased with the beignet mix. The directions were easy to follow (just add water) and the amount of mix in the box was generous for the price. Once properly prepared, the beignets were just as delicious as those served at Cafe du Monde (of course, you do have that tiresome clean-up when you make them at home that you don't have when you go to the cafe in New Orleans, but all truly great things come with a price).

Happy Birthday Boucher!

2011-09-29T06:27:00.000-07:00

Boucher when he was 38 years
old and at the height of his
popularity

I have returned from my Grand Tour and am anxious to share some of my titillating finds, but first, I hope you will join with me in wishing François Boucher a Joyeux Anniversaire!

The brilliant French painter was born in this day in 1703. The son of a minor painter and talented lace designer, François was exposed to the Arts at a young age. By the time he was twenty years old, he had served as an apprentice to the famed artist François Lemoyne, the engraver Jean-François Cars, and won the Grand Prix de Rome (a much-coveted scholarship for artists).
He was admitted to the Académie de peinture et de sculpture as a historical painter in 1731 and became a faculty member in 1734. From that point, his career took off.

Using a pleasing palette in which he incorporated many shades of blue, Boucher was a master at depicting the whimsical, fantastical, and normal scenes of life in the early to mid-18th century.

In his painting, A Lady Fastening Her Garter (or La Toilette) we are able to peek into a private, intimate moment of a fashionable woman completing her toilette. Notice that the lady's face had been whitened with (lead-based) make-up, rouged, and adorned with a pox patch. Her ebony hair has been tightly curled in the tête de moutin style, (a popular "do" during Boucher's lifetime). Still wearing her powdering cape to protect her changeable silk gown from falling face or hair powder, she occupies herself with the task of fastening a pink garger around her thigh.

I love this painting because it offers a glimpse at a time-worn ritual in an elegant, long-gone era. La Toilette illustrates the arduous process a woman endures to conform to the present day ideal of beauty. Today, the details have changed (garters have been exchanged for nylons or socks and pox patches are happily a thing of the past), but the ritual is as arduous as ever. This lovely woman is long since gone, but women today can still identify with her passion for fashion.

In 1733 Boucher married Marie-Jeanne Buzeau, a famed beauty. Marie-Jeanne frequently modeled for her husband, becoming the subject of many of his paintings, including: Woman on a Daybed, An Autumn Pastorale, and the extremely controversial The Dark-Haired Odalisque, in which he portrays his lovely wife lying on her stomach across a daybed, her dressing gown pulled up to reveal her bare legs and bottom. Boucher was accused of "prostituting his wife for art" by Denis Diderot, the art critic and philosopher. Prostitution or no, The Dark-Haired Odalisque is one of Boucher's more compelling and sumptuous paintings (a far cry from his allegorical scenes). This is sensuality and decadance portrayed on a whole other level.

As seems to be the course of fame, Boucher experienced enormous success followed by a decline in popularity, vicious barbs by critics, and eventually an over-shadowing by a new painter, Fragonard.

Today, Boucher's masterpieces can be found in museums around the world - from the Boston Museum of Art to the Louvre.

The Wallace Collection, a remarkable museum in London that was once the home of a wealthy nobleman, has several Boucher paintings in their collection, including Venus and Vulcan (left).

Venus and Vulcan was painted by Boucher in 1754 and was one of three panels. It depicts Venus with her husband Vulcan, the god of fire. According to the Wallace Collection site, "The scene is set in a forge, with Cupid sharpening his arrows on Vulcan’s anvil, while the god is distracted by his wife. Venus seduced her husband, with whom she was not always on the best of terms, in order to persuade him to forge arms for her mortal son Aeneas." Critics have cited Venus and Vulcan as one of the most beautiful paintings ever created by François Boucher. I might have to agree.

If you would like to view the other panels in this trilogy, please click here. I particularly like Mars and Venus Surprised by Vulcan for the titillating subject matter and sumptuous color palette.

Here is a partial list of Boucher's work (click on title to view the painting):

Halt at the Spring (1765)

Return From Market (1767)

Diana and Callisto (1760)

Landscape with Watermill (1750)

Reclining Female Nude (1763)

Shepherd Boy Playing Bagpipes (1754)

Shepherdess and Child (1765-7)

Young Woman with Flowers in Her Hair (1734)

Young Woman with a Bouquet

Rinaldo and Armida (1749)

The Rest on the Flight to Egypt (1737)

Diana Resting after her Bath (1742)

An Autumn Pastorle (1749)

Venus Consoling Love (1751)

Cupid a Captive (1750)

Earth: Vertumnus and Pomona (1749)

Further Reading:

Boucher by David Chaucer

http://www.amazon.com/Boucher-Chaucer-Art-David-Wakefield/dp/B004AYDDCE/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1317302156&sr=8-1#_

Waiting for the Blade to Fall

2011-07-07T06:19:00.000-07:00

My novel, Silence in the Mist, was released for sale early this morning. Like most authors, I worked, hoped and prayed for this day for many years. I should be popping open a bottle of bubbly and toasting my accomplishment, but instead, I sit nervously twisting my fingers and willing the bile to move down my throat and back into my stomach.

I believe I now have a slight idea what it must have been like for a French aristocrat to lie on his stomach, his neck in the lunette, waiting for the blade to fall.

Will readers appreciate the years of research that went into writing Silence in the Mist? Will they like my heroine? Will they leave glowing reviews? Or will they turn on me like a Parisian mob, cruelly flinging barbs and maybe even a few rotten tomatoes? Will this be the end of my writing career?

These are the thoughts that occupy space in my brain on this morning.

I know my worries are not original. Every author has fretted over the release of their first novel. The agony and ecstasy of publishing. Will the blade fall or will I receive a reprieve, complete with champagne toasts?

Aloha!

2011-05-13T19:52:00.000-07:00

After years of being the one firing questions at people, I finally stepped out of my role as journalist and into the role of interview subject. Kim Adams, the fabulous woman who runs SOS Aloha, a website in support of military wives, interviewed me about my soon-to-be-released novel, Silence in the Mist.

The very gracious Ms. Adams asked fantastic questions and even decided to run a contest giving one of my books away. Why not head on over there and sign up to win The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance? (Oh, and if you feel like it, read the interview, too)

If you would like to read LEAH'S FIRST EVER INTERVIEW, click here!

A Little Something To Tease & Titillate

2011-05-02T15:09:00.000-07:00

The following is an excerpt of my novel, Silence in the Mist. This historical novel with strong romantic elements has a July 7, 2011 release date!

His voice slithered into her ear while the hot tip of the dagger pressed against her thigh.

“This torment will be at an end if you tell me the name of your leader.”

“Never,” Françoise said, shaking her head and licking her swollen, blood-encrusted lips. An unpleasant metallic taste filled her mouth and she had to fight to keep from retching.

“Tell me his name.”

“Non.”

Hoche snatched a clump of her hair and wrenched her head back. “I want the name of your commander.”

Her eyes fluttered shut but the image of the menacing general was still very much before her, invading her senses, striking terror in her heart, denying her escape.

Dear God, she prayed, please deliver me from this evil.

A warmth and overwhelming sense of security flooded over her then, as if an angel had wrapped his wings about her. She felt a peace that passed all understanding and it gave her courage.

Watch the Book Trailer for Silence in the Mist:

FAB FRENCH GOODIES GIVE-AWAY

2011-04-27T11:57:00.000-07:00

The goal: 500 Fabulous Followers by July 7, 2011

I would love to have 500 followers by July 7, 2011 (which also happens to be the release date for my novel, Silence in the Mist) and I am hoping you will help me achieve that goal!

The details: Do you see the sidebar to the right of this box? Scroll down to where it says FABULOUS FOLLOWERS and FOLLOW THIS BLOG ON FACEBOOK. All you have two do is sign up to follow this blog and you will be entered to win a fab prize (more on that in a minute).

But wait! I want to increase your chances. So, I am giving you a second opportunity to enter the contest. If you leave a comment in the comment section following my article, There's No Place Like Paris you will be entered a second time!! That's two chances to win a fabulous prize! Just by clicking a few buttons!

The Goodies: The winner(s) will win a French-themed box filled with fabulous goodies - and I do mean FABULOUS - and an autographed copy of my novel, Silence in the Mist!

Winner Announced: July 7, 2011

Silence in the Mist: A Novel of the French Revolution

2011-04-20T10:57:00.000-07:00

I have exciting news! Earlier in the year, I received a contract for my French Revolution set novel, Silence in the Mist.

Last week, I received an email attachment with the cover art. I was in the grocery store when I heared the tell-tale bling letting me know I had a new email. As soon as I saw the woman in the gorgeous gown, surrounded by a mist-shrouded Vendean forest, I screamed!

In the next few weeks I will be posting book teasers, background articles, and a trailer. I will also be holding a special contest in which the winner will receive an autographed copy of my novel, a copy of Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance , and a box full of fabulous French goodies. So be sure to check back or sign up to FOLLOW THIS BLOG.

Tales of Passion, Tales of Woe: An Interview with the Fabulous Sandra Gulland

2011-04-14T08:18:00.000-07:00

You might find this difficult to believe, but I have often been described as verbose. (Honestly, is it my fault words flow like the Niagara from my head to my tongue?)

So you would think writing an introduction to my interview with historical novelist Sandra Gulland, a writer I admire immensely, would be easy for me.

That's not the case.

I literally agonized over every word I typed. How does one go about describing Sandra Gulland? Is it merely enough to say that she wrote three acclaimed, bestselling novels about Josephine Bonaparte and another about Louis XIV's mistress, Louise de la Vallière? Do I tell readers that she was born in Miami, graduated college with a degree in literature, taught second grade in an Inuit Village, and then worked as a book editor?

Finally, I decided you, my clever, intelligent readers, would want to know why I was running an interview with Sandra Gulland. After all, what does Sandra Gulland have to do with the Life, Love and Accidental Adventures of Leah Marie Brown?

Ten years ago, I read the first book in Sandra Gulland's trilogy about Josephine Bonaparte and knew I wanted to write historical fiction. Her sumptuous novel about one of the more fascinating women in history was so richly woven with setting details and evocative prose, it lit a fire inside my writer's belly.

I had always been fascinated with Marie Antoinette and I had always been a writer, in one form or fashion, but it wasn't until I read Sandra's book I considered combining my two passions. A year later, after many crack of dawn writing sessions, I completed my first historical novel about Marie Antoinette. Since then, I have written five other historical novels.

My novels have not been published yet, but I know when they finally reach the hands of some smart editor who shares my penchant for the French Revolution, I will have Sandra Gulland to thank for it. Her novel inspired my novels.

So, without further ado, here is my interview with the fabulous and influential Sandra Gulland.

LMB: First, let me apologize in advance if the blatant fawning I am about to do over you and your novels causes you any discomfort. As you know (though my readers may not) I have been one of your more ardent devotees for ten years now (since I first discovered the Josephine B. trilogy). Thank you for graciously consenting to my requests for interviews (Ms. Gulland’s previous quotes have appeared in articles I wrote for Writers Digest and Writers Journal). Also, thanks for not misunderstanding my worshipfulness as something creepy. I promise, I am not a stalker!

SG: Leah, stalk on! I'm flattered.

I have always known I wanted to be a writer, but I did not know I wanted to write historical fiction until I read Rosalind Laker’s To Dance with Kings and your novel, The Many Lives and Secret Sorrows of Josephine B. (I guess that means, I have you to blame…I mean, thank, for this alternately agonizing and ecstatic ride down the road to publishing). Which authors have influenced your writing?

SG: The first historical novel that enchanted me was a slim, spare novel: A Walk with Love and Death by Hans Koning (then Koningberger). I adored this book, and carried it with me always. I still aspire to write a similar work: something short, elegant in every detail, tremendously romantic, yet tragic.

From Koning, I learned that historical fiction did not need to be flowery or long: the novel is only 144 pages long.

Here is the first sentence: "In the spring of that year, 1358, the peasants of northern France did not sow their fields any more."

That's a perfect detail.

In the next paragraph: "The war was in its twentieth year, but I was happy."

That says so much. Koning is a writer who hones every sentence; that's a writer I admire.

I wrote to Hans Koning several time, to let him how much his work meant to me; alas, by the time a letter did get through, he had died.

LMB: I have met my share of published authors and have found many of them to be rather narcissistic and competitive. One thing that has always impressed me about you is that you mentor new writers. Take your recent blog post, first instance: A reader asked you a question about dialogue and you offered a wonderfully instructive answer. What advice would you give to someone just starting a career in novel writing?

SG: (Thank you. You are kind.)

1) Understand that you are unlikely to earn money being a writer, and that the only reason to pursue such a vocation is that you're compelled to do so, simply for the love of it.

2) Understand that it takes a very long time to get to the point where you are publishable. (As in years.) It's similar to getting a doctorate.

3) Write, write, write: regardless. Revise. ("Revision" = re-vision.)

4) Understand that this is a craft that must to be learned, so study books on the craft of writing.

5) Read constantly—especially books similar to the ones you aspire to write.

6) Build up a Net 2.0 presence: set up a website, blog, Tweet, Facebook.

7) Don't send your manuscript out for consideration until 5 readers have told you that it's indeed ready to go.

8) Collect rejections: it's rare for a writer to be published without first having a stack of them. It's an important first step. Plus, it proves that you are tough enough to be a writer.

9) Go to readings: observe how it's done. As a writer, you will have a private self as well as a public one. Get comfortable with that.

10) Get to know other writers, on-line, off-line; join the community. Create your tribe.

11) Never give up.

LMB: Do you belong to any writer’s groups and what are your thoughts on them?

SG: I belong to two writer's groups—one back home in Canada, and another one south, at our winter home in Mexico. Both are very small and have mostly to do with emotional support. I rarely show work from a novel I'm in the process of writing: I think it's hard to evaluate a bit of a novel out of context. When a work is ready to show — a 3rd or 4th or 5th draft — I'll get them to read it.

LMB: How do you organize your notes before writing your first draft? Do you use note cards, a detailed outline, storyboards, bulletin boards?

SG: It seems to differ with each novel. For the one I'm writing now, I started with an outline—or, rather, a long list of scenes. The outline was based on an intricate timeline I keep on a computer file. The scene-by-scene outline was 30 to 40 pages long and I took it through 3 drafts. It was a tremendous help when writing the first draft. By the third draft, of course, everything had changed.

LMB: Your first three novels were written in the first person while your fourth novel was in third person POV. Which do you prefer to write in and why?

SG: I find the third person point-of-view challenging, but now I'm more comfortable with it. If you can "hear" the voice of your narrator, then the first person is a natural choice.

LMB: What are the benefits and drawbacks of writing in first person POV?

SG: The main benefit of the first person voice is that it's easier for the reader to connect with the narrator. The drawback is that you are limited when it comes to describing things—especially the narrator herself. (This is one reason the Trilogy includes letters: these provide another point-of-view.)

The language of the narrator can be a problem, depending on the character. If you are writing a mystery, the first person could be a drawback, as well. When I write third person, I tend to stick very close to the narrator: close third, it's called.

LMB: You skillfully weave historical details throughout your novels (like one character’s use of Compound Spirit of Lavender to restore her flagging spirits and another’s liberal use of Spanish Red). Do you have a card catalog for a brain or do you keep all of these fantastic little details in a notebook or computer file?

SG: I note everything down. (I use an outline program called Notebook, and the database programs EverNote and DevonThink.) With Kindle, now, my highlighted passages and notes are automatically saved onto computer. This saves a great deal of time.

LMB: And what’s your trick to keep your novels from reading like history books? How do you weave those things in there so deftly and naturally?

SG: Thank you! I think it's simply a matter of rewriting, rewriting, rewriting. When something bores me or feels sluggish, out it goes.

LMB: What’s your best tip or technique for “getting into the head” of a character?

SG: It takes time, so I guess my best tip is to have patience. I do all the usual things—create a bio, a horoscope, imagine an interview with them—but even so, it takes many, many drafts for characters to emerge.

LMB: Method actors talk about getting deep into character to help them pull off a better, more believable role. What do you do to really bring your characters to life, particularly when writing dialogue?

Gulland in character

SG: Again, for me, it all happens on the page. It does help to have been to their homes, to have dressed in their clothes; I can better imagine them as they move through their world. I'll go through on-line photographs, looking for their face: this helps a lot. I have an extensive questionnaire I fill out about them. Even so, for me, characters come to life on the page and nowhere else.

LMB: Your first three novels were about Josephine Bonaparte. Your fourth novel was about Louise de la Vallière, beloved mistress of the prodigiously sexual and rarely satiated Louis XIV. Both of these women were attached to powerful men who ultimately cast them aside. What is it about these women that aroused your sympathies?

SG: Each was different. What interested me about Josephine was that her amazing life was foretold. I find this astonishing. For Louise, I was curious about her extraordinary horsemanship. Clearly, she couldn't have been a passive young lady—and yet that's how she has been portrayed. For each, it was curiosity that drew me to them. For the novel I'm writing now, my main character was part of the theatrical world before joining the Court: that interests me greatly.

LMB: Perhaps, I have made an erroneous assumption. Was it your sympathy for Louise and Josephine that prompted you to write your novels or did you just think their lives would translate into riveting novels?

SG: For both Josephine and Louise, I was personally compelled by their story as well as by them as individuals. I was fascinated enough to want to spend almost a decade with each of them. I had to trust that at the end of that long process, I would have a story that interested others as well. It was not too much of a gamble, however. Whenever there's a wow-factor in a life, there's sure to be a good novel in it.

LMB: Do you think a historical novelist should be sympathetic or unbiased? Is it possible to be both?

SG: I'm not sure it's possible to be unbiased, and if it were possible, I'm not sure it would result in an emotionally moving novel. For me, I'm entirely biased according to my point-of-view character. The novel I'm writing now does not see Louise de la Vallière in a good light, for example, because the story is told from another point-of-view.

LMB: I think you have read my blog, so you must know that I like to ask a few odd ball questions during my interviews. I am sorry to say, even though I am in awe of your mad writing skills, I can’t repress the desire to ask you a few. So, here they are:

If you woke tomorrow and found yourself a guest at Josephine’s Malmaison, what’s the first thing you would do?

SG: (I love odd-ball questions.) If I woke up at Malmaison, I think I'd take an early morning walk in Josephine's gardens. It would be lovely if I happened upon Napoleon and Josephine there.

LMB: What burning question would ask her?

SG: I would ask her a very rude question: I would want to know what exactly was her relationship with Captain Charles. Were they lovers? Friends? Was it strictly a business relationship? All these are possible, and only Josephine and Charles know.

LMB: Fab question! Now, let’s be honest, we have all pinched a towel or a bar of soap from a hotel room. What item would you pinch before being whisked from Malmaison back to your home in Canada?

SG: Roses, which I would then dry—and treasure.

LMB: Which of Josephine’s lovers or associates do you think you would fancy the most? And why? (Just so you don’t think I am unfair in asking you to expose yourself in such a manner, I will confess my secret historical crush. I dig Napoleon. It’s true. I know he was brusque and domineering but I find his intensity and audaciousness attractive.)

SG: I'd love to hang out with Bonaparte. I've a crush on him too. Whenever I used to see a painting or statue of him, I'd think: Hi, little sweetie. (Poor Bonaparte: that's so undignified!)

LMB: And finally, assuming reincarnation is possible; who do you think you were in a previous life?

SG: In the Napoleonic era: Aunt Fanny! (Editor's Note: For those of you unfamiliar with the people of that era, Fanny de Beauharnais was Josephine Bonaparte's aunt. It was because of Aunt Fanny's ministrations that Josephine travelled from Martinique to France and married Eugene de Beauharnais, who eventually died at the guillotine) At the court of the Sun King, maybe Clorine, Louise de la Vallière's maid. I love the wacky characters best.

LMB: That’s it for the odd ball questions. Thank you for indulging me.

I know that you like to travel to the settings of your novels, can you tell me about your most memorable trip in preparing to write the Josephine B. series?

SG: The research trip I will never forget was the first, of course. I'd never been to Paris: I was enchanted, literally. The year before, I'd had the good fortune of consulting with Jane Urquhart, the Writer in Residence at the University of Ottawa. I took her the manuscript of what was to become the Josephine B. Trilogy. She told me, "You have to go to Paris." And so I did.

Josephine's bed

LMB: Which of Josephine’s treasures has titillated you the most (an object you have seen in a museum or at Malmaison)?

SG: I longed to try on her crown (also to stretch out on her bed). If only!

LMB: I know that Louise de la Vallière was an accomplished equestrian. I also know that you took a tour of the Loire Valley on horseback. How did that trip give help you to write Mistress of the Sun?

SG: An "experiential" research trip such as this one gave me a visceral sense of 17th century travel: the slow pace of moving through a landscape on horseback, the sound of the horses' hooves cantering into a palace courtyard, the daily routine of getting on and off a horse, the smell, the sweat, the sores. It's an experience I will never forget. You can't get that through books.

LMB: Which books are on your nightstand?

SG: How quickly things have changed: the only "book" on my nightstand is my iPad, but it's full of titles. Right now I'm reading Kate Atkinson's newest novel, Started Early, Took My Dog. I find her delightful. I'm also reading How to Write a Sentence; And How to Read One by Stanley Fish, as well as Blood Work: A Tale of Medicine and Murder in the Scientific Revolution, by the wonderful Holly Tucker. Next up: Parisians; An Adventure History of Paris by Graham Robb, a great writer, and, for fiction, The Paris Wife by Paula Mclain. You can see that I'm longing for Paris!

LMB: I have had a lot of serendipitious moments while researching and writing my novels, some of which I have shared on my blog. Have you had anything odd happen while you were writing your books – anything that made you wonder if a higher power was nudging you along the path?

SG: It's true that when you ask "the universe"—that is, open yourself up to the questions—answers appear. I personally don't attribute it to a higher power, although it's certainly possible.

LMB: Will you tell us a little about your WIP?

SG: My next novel is, again, biographical historical fiction. It is set in the 17th century French court of the Sun King—the same time and place as Mistress of the Sun. While the theme of Mistress was horsemanship, the theme of this novel is the theatrical world of that period. The novel is based on the real-life story of Claude des Oeillets, daughter of a theatrical diva. As waiting-maid to Madame de Montespan—the King's ultimate "power" mistress—she becomes involved in witchcraft and has a child by the King herself. Yes, a complex story!

LMB: Merci beaucoup, Madame Gulland. I appreciate you taking time out of your busy life to answer the questions of this humble journalist.

To my readers, if you enjoyed reading this interview, please click FOLLOW THIS BLOG in the right-hand sidebar. Thank you.

RECOMMENDED READING:

My Glamorous Life

2011-04-04T15:46:00.000-07:00

After reading about my adventures in London, Strasbourg, Paris, Mont Saint-Michel, Kyoto, and Salzburg, you must think I live the charmed life of a Disney Princess.

If that is true, I am about to shatter your illusion.

Although I've been fortunate enough to travel to some of the world's most exciting cities, I promise you that a flock of tiny blue birds does not awaken me with their twittering or bring me my pelisse by holding the silken straps within their beaks. In fact, my reality is far from glamorous.

Take this morning, for example.

I love the smell of jet fuel
in the morning, don't you?

I woke to the roar of fighter jets lifting off the runway located a block from my home. Their supersonic blasts frequently rattle my windows (and nerves).

I reluctantly rolled out of my warm bed, padded over to my closet, and slipped into my thick, thoroughly-unsexy, Alaska-practical robe. Then, glutton for punishment that I am, I looked out the window to assess the weather.

I don't know why I repeat this ritual each morning, as if I am Bill Murray replaying a scene in the movie Groundhog Day. The weather rarely changes in Alaska in the Spring. It's all shades of gray; a place of little depth and nuance.

Spring has arrived!

Nevertheless, each morning I pull back the curtains and peer outside, hoping to see something other than gray flannel skies and mounds of drab snow.

My son came into the room then, complaining of a sore throat, achy body and the chills (Alaska's version of Spring Fever). I sent him back to bed with the promise of a mug of hot chocolate, cinnamon toast with the crusts cut off, and some NyQuil.

Then, I remembered we were out of NyQuil...and cinnamon toast.

Don't I look like
I could be a cover girl
for InUit Style
Magazine?

So, I padded back to my closet, took off my robe and pajamas, and hunted around for an outfit that would be appropriate for a quick trip to the grocery store. I opted for my uber-chic caribou fur leggings, sealskin boots, and polar bear fur coat with matching gloves. I considered adding my mink neck wrap, but decided I would have been over-dressed and too warm. After all, it is Spring!

I waddled downstairs, grabbed my bear spray, and stood guard in the backyard while Molly, my beloved schnoodle, attended to her morning ablutions.

Then, it was off to the grocery store to buy supplies for my NyQuil-spiked hot chocolate (because, by this point, my throat felt scratchy and my limbs ached).

Look who I ran into at the
grocery store this morning!

I rolled into the grocery store parking lot about ten minutes later and guess who I saw standing in a nearby copse, munching on some withered berries?

A moose!

I say that enthusiastically (even adding an exclamation mark), as if it is an unusual occurrence, when, in fact, since moving to Alaska, I have seen scores of moose. Moose have become my Alaska peeps. The sociable creatures have taken naps beside my car, licked my living room window, and even rung my doorbell.

Spotting moose is one of the few things I actually like about living in Alaska.

After my recent post, There's No Place Like Paris, I received a flood of emails (okay, maybe it was only a dozen) from readers begging me to write another piece about Alaska. Sophia Laurent, a faithful follower of On Life, Love and Accidental Adventures, asked me to write about what is good in Alaska and to "be sure to include some of your pictures."

Feeling the benevolent blogger, I went one step further. For Sophia and my legion of inquiring readers (read: eight), I have compiled a list of the Top Nine Things I Love About Alaska. The list includes some of my photographs and lots of warm-fuzzies.

And so, without further ado, here is my list:

Top Nine Things I Love About Alaska (I tried for ten, but after spending several painful hours wracking my brain, I could not think of a final thing to love)

1. Awesome Scenery

Alaska has majestic mountains, vast skies, clean air, and crystal blue lakes. In the summer, the leaves on the trees and the grass on the ground turns an impossibly bright green. In the winter, everything in nature appears to have been dusted with glitter. It is impossible to visit Alaska and leave doubting God's existence.

2. The Wildlife

Since moving to Alaska, I have watched a grizzly stand in the Russian River and swat at salmon, a fox leap over snowdrifts, and an eagle build a nest. I have watched black bear cubs amble through a field of wildflowers, caribou sprint across the tundra, and Dall sheep clamber up a cliff. I've watched in awe as a pod of beluga whales slowly made their way through the bay and giggled at the silly antics of back-stroking sea otters.

There is an eagle who makes his nest in a tree not too far from my home. Each time I drive by that enormous nest, perched at the top of the tree, I look for the eagle. When he is there, I feel a jolt of excitement. When he is not there, I fret that he met with misfortune.

He was the first "friend" I looked up upon returning to Alaska.

3. Cool, Sunny Days
Although they are few and far between, there are days when the sun is hot and bright and the breeze is cool and refreshing. They are the perfect sort of days for riding a bike or hanging in a hammock.

4. Termination Dust

In early September, a light snowfall dusts the tops of the nearby mountains. It is nature's way of letting Anchorage residents know that winter is on its way. As the month progresses, the snow creeps farther and father down the mountain. One can literally mark the progress on a daily basis. I love it. On the one hand, I dread months of darkness and frigid temperatures; on the other hand, I love the fist snowfall and the way the city looks covered in the pristine silvery white blanket.

5. The Flowers

Living in Alaska is like living in a refrigerator. Most of the time it is really cold and dark. Then, when you least expect it, the light comes on! One day it will be cold and gray and you think winter will never end. Then, the next day comes and it is sunny from four in the morning until midnight. The copious summer sunshine (during the summers it is actually sunny, for we have endured two cold, rainy summers where we spent the fourth of July huddled around a fire pit), creates an explosion of fauna. Wildflowers grow in fields and abandoned lots and sunflowers stretch and bloom in the narrow strips of grassland beside the Glenn Highway.

6. Modern Dwellers Chocolate Lounge

I discovered this ultra-hip chocolate lounge on a bitterly cold, particularly bleak day early into my sentence (I view my time in Alaska much as a prisoner views his time in jail, something that must be endured). Snow swirling, wind howling, temperatures plummeting, wolves howling, I stumbled into the funky little chocolate bar and nearly wept in ecstasy at the seductive scents and sights. The aroma of spices commingle with the scent of chocolate. On the walls hangs artwork produced by local artists. I felt as if I had discovered a magic portal that allowed me to step out of run-down Anchorage and into a more cosmopolitan city.

One day, I risked life and limb on the mean, frozen streets of Anchorage only to discover Modern Dwellers would not be open that day. Dejected. Despondent. Depressed. Adrift on a sea of misery and hopelessness, I considered driving down 5th Avenue until I hit water, but somehow managed to pull myself together (probably with the promise of another euphoric chocolate encounter on another dreary day).

7. Trees

I could be a Lorax because I do speak to the trees. I love the texture of their bark and the gracefulness way their limbs bend and stretch. Alaska has a lot of trees and the light that filters through them is truly magical.

I took this picture my first winter in Alaska. For days it had been dark and bitterly cold. Depressed, I sent up a silent prayer begging God to give me a little sunshine. Later that day, I noticed tentative rays poking their way through the slit in my drapes. I grabbed my camera, jumped in my car, and headed to a nearby golf course. By the time I finished snapping four or five shots, the sun was sinking below the horizon again. I didn't care though. The precious few moments of sunlight had been like a gift from Heaven, which is why I titled the photo above "God's Gift."

8. Icicles

The locals like to brag that everything is better in Alaska. Well, if by better they mean bigger, they are right.

Have you ever seen an icicle as big as the one in the picture to the left? I snapped this shot during a winter walks with my children. It looks like something out of Narnia, doesn't it?

9. Dramatic Sunsets

I've watched the sun set over some of the most spectacular sites in the world - from the Palace of Versailles to the Acropolis in Athens - but I've witness the most bold and vivid sunsets in Alaska.

Friday's Fabulous Find: Madame Guillotine & Her Secret Diary

2011-04-01T07:48:00.000-07:00

Melanie Clegg, also known as Madame Guillotine, is a successful novelist, avid blogger, and a self-proclaimed gin-swilling Victorian prostitute.

She is also the author of The Secret Diary of a Princess, an exciting new novel about Marie Antoinette's early, carefree years in Austria. The Secret Diary of a Princess offers Antoinette-enthusiasts a fresh pair of spectacles from which to gaze at her, painting the portrait of a fun, charming, light-hearted girl.

Ms. Clegg was born in Forres, Scotland on October 10th (the day French physician Joseph-Ignace Guillotin, stood before the National Assembly and declared he could invent an efficient, humane killing machine. Hence, her moniker, Madame Guillotine). She has an Art History degree from the University of Nottingham.

She bravely agreed to place her neck in the lunette, making herself vulnerable to my razor sharp questions. (I can hear you all groaning. I promise, no more guillotine puns) So, without further ado, que the drum roll and let's proceed...

LMB: I would be remiss if I didn’t start this interview off by mentioning the number of things we have in common. We are both writers, middle-class housewives, fanatical Francophiles, devotees of Marie Antoinette. And we both have pink hair. Do you think it was by accident or design that we bumped into each other on the World Wide Web?

MC: Haha! I think it was all part of the Supreme Being's great plan - cosmic forces were definitely at work to bring us together! Pink haired bloggers unite!

LMB: To be fair, there are also a few things we do not share in common. Although I have been known to don a Marie Antoinette costume (to frightening effect) I understand you prefer to flounce around in the garb of a Victorian prostitute. What’s that about?

MC: Ooh, well I do like to dress up as Marie Antoinette but yes, I definitely have a preference for a bit of Victorian Prostitute re-enactment which involves a spot of dressing up, hanging around alleyways and drinking gin. I've been fascinated by Jack the Ripper and his time since I was a very, very little girl and this turned into a full blown obsession as an adult. I would definitely call myself a Ripperologist now. Anyway, yes.

LMB: You call yourself Madame Guillotine and confess to being obsessed with Jack the Ripper. If we ever decide to travel together, remind me to sleep with one eye open, won't you? Now, let’s get to the nuts and bolts of it, shall we? (Do the British use that phrase? Wait! Don’t you say let’s get to the twigs and berries?)

MC: We do indeed use that phrase. Nuts and bolts, I mean NOT twigs and berries. This reminds me of a Twitter conversation I had last week with an American follower who seemed to be expressing surprise that we have washing machines here in the UK and no longer beat our washing with rocks in streams.

LMB: Seriously? That's hilarious. One good story deserves another. When I was in Scotland a few years ago on the 4th of July, I noticed that the guide at Mellerstain House was wearing an American flag pin. I thanked him. He smiled and said, "I do so love you Colonials."

Back to our interview, what is a good British girl like you doing being obsessed with a FRENCH queen?

MC: Haha, well, I posted about this recently but it all started when I was about four or five years old and I saw the Blue Peter (British children's programme of a rather staid middle class but informative nature) special about Marie Antoinette at Versailles. I was HOOKED. From that time on I spent most of the time hanging about in the garden, picking roses and pretending to be her!

LMB: What is about Marie Antoinette that captures your interest and loyalty?

MC: Oh so many things. I love her levity, her enjoyment of life, her appreciation for charming and beautiful things, her honesty, her loyalty, her warm heart. I feel that she was one of those very shy people who get labelled as 'haughty' or 'up themselves' and that makes me sympathise with her a great deal. I also find her loyalty and love for her family immensely inspiring.

LMB: Marie Antoinette is still a polarizing figure. People either love her or hate her. Those of us who love her are often accused of being too sentimental or romantic. What do you say to that?

MC: I say pooh to it. Oh yes, I get criticised quite a lot for liking her so much - people seem to think that if you sympathise with Marie Antoinette then you must be some sort of peasant hating, cold hearted enemy of democracy. It's utter nonsense.

LMB: Agreed. Though many have argued that Marie Antoinette’s careless actions greased the wheels that allowed the Revolution to move at a brisker clip, do you agree?

MC: I don't think it was quite so extreme as that, no. I believe that the wheels of the revolution were greased at a much earlier date and that the monarchy was already doomed by the time she arrived in France in 1770. If Louis had been another Louis XIV then maybe things could have turned out differently but I don't think they can be held personally responsible for what happened in France.

LMB: What do you think was Marie Antoinette’s greatest folly?

MC: Her loyalty was one of her greatest assets and also one of her biggest failings - her blind devotion to her friends and their interests was not entirely advisable, I think.

LMB: Your novel is a fictionalized account of her early life. What is about that time in her life that interests you?

MC: I liked the fact that it has been so rarely treated properly by other writers and yet gives so many clues about the woman that she was to eventually become. There is a tendency to portray Marie Antoinette as a gauche little princess who was totally overawed by the splendour of Versailles and the French court, but that just wasn't the case as after all her mother was one of the most powerful rulers in the world and she had grown up in the Hofburg and Schonnbrunn in Vienna, which aren't exactly rustic shacks, even in comparison to Versailles!

I was also interested in her family and how she got on with her sisters and brothers.

LMB: Did you travel to any of her childhood homes? If so, what did you learn about her while you were there?

MC: I didn't alas. This is a bit embarrassing actually, but I didn't make it to Vienna while I was writing this book although I read a LOT while I was working on it. The impression I got from my readings was that life at the Habspurg court could be just as splendid as that at Versailles but there was also a more informal, cozy family feel.

LMB: Which of Marie Antoinette’s treasures has titillated you the most? (An object you have seen in a museum or at Versailles)

MC: Oh lots! I love seeing her shoes at the Carnavalet - there's something so personal about someone's shoes isn't there? Oh and her fabulous travelling case in the Louvre - so beautifully put together and also useful!

LMB: As you know, I am fascinated by the power of Serendipity because I have experienced it many times while plotting and writing my novels. Did you have anything odd happen while you were writing this book – anything that made you wonder if a higher power was nudging you along the path?

MC: I wish that I could say that I did but alas not. :(

LMB: What sort of research did you conduct in preparation for writing The Secret Diary of a Princess?

MC: Oh SO MUCH reading! Loads of books about Marie Antoinette, Austria, the Hapsburgs, Versailles, fashion, food, everything of that time. It was fascinating and also gruelling!

LMB: Did you learn anything about Marie Antoinette that surprised you or upset your beliefs? What?

MC: Not at all - quite the reverse in fact, I felt like I was uncovering a really lovely, vital, charming princess and ended up liking her even more than I did before! The more I learned about Marie Antoinette's childhood and family, the better I felt I understood her.

LMB: Who do you think was Marie Antoinette’s closest childhood friend?

MC: Definitely her sister Maria Carolina - the two girls were inseparable until Carolina was married and sent to Naples. The sisters used to mess around during their lessons and play tricks on their mother's courtiers - to the extent that the Empress threatened to have them separated. That's the side of Marie Antoinette that intrigued me and that I wanted to evoke in my book.

LMB: Who had the most influence over her early years?

MC: Definitely her father. He died when she was still very young but the memory of him remained at the court and in the hearts of his widow and children forever.

LMB: How was Marie Antoinette ill-prepared for life at Versailles?

MC: Her mother, Maria Theresa, was in the unusual situation of having not only chosen her own husband but of having enjoyed a happy and fulfilled married life with him. The private life of the Imperial royal family was totally unlike that of the French royal family and Maria Theresa totally failed to prepare her daughter for any of this - she had no idea what it was like to marry a stranger that she did not love.

Marie Antoinette and her siblings enjoyed a carefree happy childhood - the Bourbon children were much less fortunate.

LMB: There has long been speculation about the cause of Louis and Antoinette’s early infertility. Some have suggested Louis suffered from phimosis or hydrocele, while others suggest Marie Antoinette was frigid. What are your thoughts on the matter?

MC: I think they were just ill prepared, shy and awkward. I don't think there was anything wrong with either of them in terms of libido or health - they were just ignorant and uncertain. Poor things!

LMB: Since we’ve slipped into bed between Louis and Antoinette, let’s really dish. What are your thoughts on the whole Axel Fersen matter? Did Marie Antoinette have an affair with the dashing Swedish count?

MC: Hahaha! The thing about Marie Antoinette is that she really wanted people to think that she was a great beauty and she also badly wanted to experience romance and love. She wanted to be a heroine. There's nothing wrong with that all - she loved Louis deeply but I doubt that she was ever 'in' love with him and so even thoughdevoted to her, he couldn't really give her the great romance she thought she craved (of course, in retrospect, the mutual devotion of Louis and Antoinette at the end IS a great romance). I think that Axel de Fersen filled that craving to an extent but that nothing physical happened between them. I feel that their relationship was akin to those at the old Medieval Courts of Love - a knight and his lady. Nothing more than that.

LMB: Well said. I agree completely. In your research, did you find anything that would indicate Marie Antoinette was unfaithful to Louis XVI?

MC: No, not at all. It's been suggested of course, but I feel that it would have been out of character for her to commit adultery.

LMB: If someone pressed the rusty tip of a bayonet to your throat and demanded you choose an allegiance, would you proclaim yourself Royalist or Revolutionary? And why?

MC: Oh, this is hard. Royalist, I think. I love Lucile Desmoulins, Danton, Madame Roland, Camille, Héraut de Séchelles and the others BUT the brutality of the times really horrifies me and so my sympathy is totally with the royalists.

LMB: Fair warning, I am about to ask a few oddball questions. For years I wondered if I was the reincarnation of Marie Antoinette. I have since abandoned that belief (in favor of the notion that I was probably a member of her court of humble origins). Do you believe in reincarnation?

MC: Oh that's interesting! I used to believe very strongly in reincarnation but am not sure nowadays. I love the idea of it but am not sure about the actual mechanics of it!

LMB: So, who do you think you were?

MC: I think I was Lucile Desmoulins, Émilie de St Amaranthe or similar. Or maybe a Victorian Prostitute?

One of my grandmother's friends was absolutely CONVINCED that she was reincarnated from Mary, Queen of Scots and I remember her getting very, very angry with me as a little girl when I visited because I have the same hair and eyes (really it is uncanny!) as Poor Old Queen Mary. I am about a foot shorter though, so that's okay.

LMB: Let's hope you do not end your days in the same fashion that poor Mary ended hers.

Finally, who in modern times, do you think best represents Marie Antoinette? That is, who could be her reincarnated? (Besides you and I, of course )

MC: Haha, Donatella Versace? :)

LMB: If you could trade lives for one week with one person from Marie Antoinette’s coterie, who would it be?

MC: Rose Bertin maybe? Or Madame Vigée Lebrun? Someone with talent and an appreciation for lovely things. I bet Mademoiselle Bertin had some amazing clothes and, wow, Vigée Lebrun has works in the Louvre!

LMB: If you woke up tomorrow and suddenly found yourself strolling around the pond at le hameau, Marie Antoinette, by your side, what would you say to her?

MC: 'When they give you a chance to go, do it and take your children with you. Don't trust anyone. They're ruthless.'

LMB: What is your favorite scene in The Secret Life of a Princess?

MC: I always smile at Marie Antoinette putting a mouse in Countess Brandeis' shoe. :)

LMB: What do you hope readers take away from The Secret Life of a Princess?

MC: I really hope that they take away an idea of what the real Marie Antoinette was truly like and how her childhood and upbringing made her the woman that she was eventually to become. I'd also like them to really love her a bit. :)

LMB: What are you working on now?

MC: I am currently working on my book based on The Buccaneers and then I will be writing a book about Isabella de' Medici and one about Jack the Ripper!

LMB: A writer's life is typically one of isolation. Do you belong to any writer's organizations?

MC: I am a member of the Arvon Foundation and also the Romantic Novelists Association.

LMB: Do you have any advice for would-be novelists?

MC: Ooh, read lots, never give up and remember that even writing a little bit every day is better than never writing anything at all.

LMB: What do you like to snack on while you are writing? What's your brain candy?

MC: Chocolate covered raisins. I actually have a passion for crisps but I have a new Macbook Pro and live in fear of getting crumbs stuck between its keys... ;)

LMB: Well at least you did not say, "Let me eat cake." (Sorry, couldn't resist)

LMB: Merci beaucoup et bonne chance!

MC: Merci beaucoup et bonne chance aussi, belle madame.

There's No Place Like Paris

2011-03-22T10:12:00.000-07:00

Leah Marie Brown

It's that time of year I have come to dread.

For most of the world, the long, dreary march through Winter is nearing its end and the verdant days of Spring lie just on the horizon.

Soon, the snow will melt, the birds will chirp, the flowers will bloom. Petite princesses in pastel dresses will romp through grassy fields in search of decorated Easter eggs.

While the rest of the world is packing away their winter coats and wooly Uggs, I will be bundled in a hideous Arctic Squall Parka, staring up at my gutters, willing the icicles to melt. (Don't laugh, icicle watching is a favorite pasttime here in Anchorage. In fact, it's even a competitive event at Fur Rondy, an annual festival to mark the beginning of the Iditarod Dog Sled Race. I am told icicle mind melting is one of the training exercises performed by the Iditarod Mushers to help them improve their concentration skills.)

Anchorage in the Spring.

So, while the rest of the world dashes between the raindrops of April's showers and inhales the sweet scent of May's flowers, I will be making snowmen and chiseling hoar frost from my brow.

It's enough to drive any sun-worshiping woman to the bottle (Again, I must ask that you refrain from laughing at my blatant attempt at melodrama as, sadly, Alaska has one of the highest alcoholism rates in the country)

So what do I do keep myself from turning pea green with envy as I look at photos of my friends in their new Burberry wellies or pastel pink loafers? Like Dorothy clicking the heels of her fabulous ruby slippers in an attempt to escape Oz, I close my eyes and think of somewhere else.

Inevitably, my thoughts turn to Paris. (I say inevitably because whenever I am stressed or blue or in need of an escape, I think of Paris. Don't you?)

The Cabbage Blossoms

I imagine strolling past the tender, tulips blooming in the Tuileries. I envision flowerboxes filled with geraniums hanging from charming wrought iron balconies on the Île de la Cité. I think of a beautiful bunch of cabbage blossoms I once saw in a silver bucket outside a little shop in the Marais.

But more than anything, I think of the bistros.

I imagine myself (snappily outfited in a fabulous pink dress, impossibly high heels, and fashionable Audrey Hepburn-esque black sunglasses) at my favorite bistro. I am seated at one of the little marble topped tables situated on the sidewalk in front of the bistro. At my feet is Molly, my schnoodle, and over my head is a cheerful, wide green awning.

Table at my favorite bistro

The waiter arrives and I say in flawless, fluent French, "Je voudrais commander une salade composée et un verre de vin blanc, s'il vous plait."

(In my fantasties, I speak in flawless, fluent French. In reality, there are only a few French phrases I can utter without sounding tres horrible. In fact, if I could butcher meat as neatly as I do the French language, Anthony Bourdain would be my best friend and I would rule Le Halles.)

Then, I sit back and devour the marvelous, moveable feast that is Paris.

The panoply of Parisians, with their scarves artfully knotted about their necks, walk briskly and with such purpose I find myself wondering about their lives. Who are these people? Where do they work? What moves them? A simple Parisian (if one could ever characterize a Parisian by such a term) in a pasmina piques my fertile imagination in a way an Alaskan in snowbibs and parka never could.

I remember one Parisian, in paricular. It was a cool day in March. The morning had been clear and sunny, but by mid-day a thick blanket of clouds rolled in, blanketing the city in gray and dropping the temperature several degrees.

I was sitting at an outdoor cafe, holding a mug of hot chocolate between my hands, delighting in its warmth and the sweet-spicy scented tendrils of steam tickling my nose, when I noticed him.

An elderly man in jaunty cap and toting a straw market bag, paused in his journey and observed me. I quickly took note of his features: piercing gaze, jaunty cap, clipped moustache, bag filled with produce, lips lifted slightly in humor or disdain (I could not tell, at first).

We locked gazes and I realized, at once, we were kindred spirits. Monsieur Jaunty Cap was a fellow participant in the pastime of people watching.

Suddenly, I wondered what he thought about me.

"Who is this brash young American woman to be staring at people in such a familiar manner? And why is she sitting outside when there are perfectly warm seats to be had inside? Strange, these Americans."

My lips pulled back in a self-concious smile, but his gargoyle-like expression remained chiseled into his face. His piercing gaze did not falter.

I lifted my chin slightly and raised an eyebrow, mimicing an expression I had witnessed on the faces of countless cool, collected Parisians.

He smiled then. A mischievous little grin that caused his eyes to twinkle and sketched his character with finer strokes than I ever could have imagined.

He touched the brim of his hat with two fingers, hoisted his bag onto his shoulder, and he was gone. Leaving me to my March musings.

And so, as the rest of the world is piroutteing through puddles and preparing for summer, I will be putting on my parka and pondering Paris.

If you enjoyed this blog piece, please click the FOLLOW THIS BLOG button in the right sidebar and then read my piece Falling in Love With Paris One Bistro At A Time

Merci beaucoup!

Further Reading:

Friday's Fabulous Find: Amalia K.

2011-03-18T09:36:00.000-07:00

Wishes by Amalia K.

Lately, I have been feeling like Life has been getting a little too heavy.

Health concerns. Numerous professional obligations. Maintaining my sanity (and eroding authority) while living with two clever, rebellious teenagers. Facing my fear that no amount of expensive French, caviar-infused moisturizer will be able to reverse the withering affect the dry Alaskan air has had on my skin and hair, that I am destined to spend the remainder of my days looking like the Crypt Keeper in a pink pashmina. And then there's the endless fretting about when the new season of Mad Men will begin.

Add to that the unbelievable shock and sadness that comes each time I look at a new photograph or listen to a new report about the poor, devastated people of Japan, struggling to rebuild some semblance of a life after last week's earthquake and tsunami.

Well, it's a lot for one woman to deal with.

NOT Amalia's work

I decided to do what I usually do when life gets too heavy: indulge in a pastime that helps to lighten the load. Spending the day in an art museum usually does the trick. Usually, for you see, the Anchorage Art Museum is filled primarily with Inuit scratchings, the pelts of dried animals, and photographs documenting the history of the Iditarod. The spirit and culture of Alaska and the circumpolar north, expressive as it may be, does not inspire the sort of art that...well...inspires me.

So, I went to the web. Specifically, I headed over to Translucent Blue, the beautifully designed blog of artist Amalia K. It's my oasis on the web, my hit of brain candy.

Amalia K. was born in a remote place in Sumatera, Indonesia. Her father worked for an oil company and her mother was, and still is, a culinary entrepreneur.

Amalia attended an Art college in the United Kingdom, but entered the university when her father got transferred back to Indonesia. Today, she is a successful wife, mother, and independent illustrator.

Amalia was kind enough to allow me to post some of her artwork on On Life, Love and Accidental Adventures. She also consented to an interview, which I would like to share with you now...

Signs

LMB: I was born with my passion for writing emblazoned on my soul. I have always known I wanted to be a writer. It's all I have ever desired, all I have ever done. Was art your passion early on or did you stumble upon it later in life?

AK: I think I have been passionate about art for as long as I can remember. I was told that I used to just draw on the floor and talked to myself as if I were living in my drawings. Well, I still do, you know. Minus the talking of course. These days I talk in my head.

LMB: Do you remember the first time you looked at a piece of art and felt truly moved? Where were you and what was that piece?

AK: That would be Venus and Mars by Sandro Botticelli. I saw the painting for the first time at the National Gallery in London when I was 15 years old. Of course, I hadn't a clue what the painting really means then. If I did, I would probably have blushed and turned around. :)

Leah "learning"
pottery in
South Korea

LMB: Let me first caveat the following questions with this little disclaimer: My art education is limited to two college art history classes and a botched stab at making Korean Pottery, so please forgive me if I lack the proper terminology.

I believe the paintings on your lovely blog, Translucent Blue, were created with watercolor paints. Is that your preferred medium? If so, why?

AK: I was actually a loyal fanatic of colored pencils when I first started out. I worked with water and oil mediums very little back then. But after a while I fell in love with acrylic washes and tea staining, especially because it's versatile and takes less time than using pencils.

LMB: I know you are an avid reader of my blog, so you probably already have a strong sense that I believe in serendipity and destiny (and the restorative power of pastries). Bearing all that in mind, I have two questions:

Have any serendipitous things happened that have affected or inspired your art?

AK: I've encountered so many things in life by chance. Some good, some bad, and I think at some point or the other those experiences have affected myself as a person and of course, what I pour into my art. However, sometimes I wonder if those were really just fate.

And, which do you find superior, a tart, cookie, or cupcake?

AK: And as for the three choices, I think I'm more into tart (with cream fillings!), although I have known myself to go weak on the knees in the presence of French pastries.

LMB: Another thing we have in common! Sweet cream and weak knees. Nice.

AK: :)

LMB: Not surprisingly, I am drawn to art produced in the 18th century (After all, some have wondered if I am Marie Antoinette reincarnated). Boucher. Fragonard. Lancret. De Troy. These are the artists I prefer. What style - or is it movement? - do you prefer and who are your favorite artists?

Midnight Travel
by Amalia K.

AK: I love Botticelli (of course), but mostly inspired by the The Pre-Raphaelite and French Impressionism periods. Some of my favorites are Rossetti, Burne-Jones, Degas and Renoir.

LMB: I love the vibrant, lush colors and the Rubenesque-rounded bodies in Boucher's paintings and the stories that are told in the paintings by Fragonard and de Troy. (Did I sound as ridiculous as Randy Jackson critiquing an American Idol hopeful? "Yo, man, check it out. That was a little pitchy dawg.") What is it about your favorite artist's paintings that speak to you?

AK: Emotions and hidden meanings are always the main keys I seek in art. I love how some art doesn't reveal the obvious and let us interpret it to our own likings and point of view.

LMB: Tracy Chevalier, author of Girl With a Pearl Earring, said, "I was lying in bed one morning, worrying about what I was going to write next...A poster of the Vermeer painting Girl With a Pearl Earring hung in my bedroom, as it had done since I was 19 and first discovered the painting. I lay there idly contemplating the girl's face, and thought suddenly, I wonder what Vermeer did to her to make her look like that. Now there's a story worth writing. Within three days I had the whole story worked out. It was effortless; I could see all the drama and conflict in the look on her face. Vermeer had done my work for me."

How do you find ideas for your paintings?

AK: I see inspirations daily, but most of the work I get really "involved" in are the ones that came from the heart. Believe it or not, it's true that sadness and doubts are usually the main triggers for people like me to get really obsessed with work. It's like opening a door to a flood.

The Expedition

LMB: Specifically, can you tell me what inpsired you to paint The Expedition (at left)? What is the story behind that girl with the huge eyes holding the slumbering bunny? (BTW, it did not escape my notice that she is wearing a beret. Love that!)

AK: The Expedition is a little interpretation of my escape from reality toward something better.

LMB: If someone would like to buy your artwork, how would they accomplish that?

AK: I have an Etsy shop for originals and prints of my work. Sometimes I add little things just to satisfy my cravings.

LMB: Finally, while I adore your artwork, truly, I have asked you to consider a painting with a Marie Antoinette feel, perhaps of a blonde with a grand pink wig, holding a plate of pastries ;) Do you see such a painting in your future?

AK: In my world, my lovely friend, anything is possible. :)

Merci beaucoup, Amalia, for coloring our world by being this Friday's Fabulous Find!

In Death, In Sleep by Amalia K.

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Accidental Adventures in Japan: Cherry Blossoms & Croque Monsieur

2011-03-13T23:12:00.000-07:00

Leah & Friends in
Iwakuni, Japan

I've often wondered what inspired me, a girl of simple origins from an average mid-western town, to travel the world.

Maybe it was the subscription to National Geographic my grandfather gave me for my fifth birthday. Each month, the magazine would arrive in my mailbox with a little label bearing my name and address. Truth be known, the label on the outside of the magazine was almost as exciting as the glossy photos on the inside. Photos of far-away places like Mykonos and Madrid and Mozambique.

I remember one issue about the Seychelles. An article inside explained that archaeologists believed the Garden of Eden was located off the coast of one of the islands. The article included photos of what looked like a submerged tree with great vines swaying as if on a breeze. How it captured my young imagination! Oh to dive below the sea and discover worlds forgotten! Such daring! Twenty years later, I would become a certified, advanced search-and-rescue diver, frolicking with massive octupi in the Puget Sound, dolphins in Honduras, and sharks in Panama.

Kyoto

I remember another issue of about the Cherry Blossom Festival of Kyoto. The glossy photos in that magazine were of ancient temples, languid canals, and meandering paths. The paths were flanked by cherry blossom trees sprouting tissue-paper like petals stained pink with the first flush of Spring. I imagined myself sitting in a garden with neatly-clipped trees and babbling koi ponds stocked with copper-penny-hued goldfish. I imagined what it would be like to stand beneath the outstretched branches of a magnificent cherry blossom tree and to feel her petals rain down on me like silky pink raindrops.
Thirty years later, I would have the opportunity to visit Kyoto, to sit quietly in her gardens, to marvel at her temples, and to admire her graceful cherry blossom trees.

A Spontaneous Adventure
Although the seeds of my desire to visit Japan were planted at a tender age, it did not come to fruition for many years. My somewhat spontaneous trip to Kyoto happened in 2006. I spent five days in Osaka and Kyoto with two fun, adventure-loving girlfriends. We were all living on Osan Air Base in South Korea and looking for an excuse (any excuse) to leave that crowded, dirty, polluted corner of Asia.

Bamboo Forest

We caught a C-12J from Osan to Iwakuni MCAS near Hiroshima, Japan. From there, we took the bullet train to Osaka. We spent the next five days touring the Bamboo Forest in Arishyama, an otherworldly place where golden light filters softly through lacy leaves, and the Fushimi-Inari Taisha Inari Shrine in Kyoto, with an ancient temple and towering orange gates stacked like an endless chain of dominoes.

Zen Moment

We contemplated our lives in a zen garden, stumbled upon a Marie Antoinette exhibition at the Kyoto Museum, bought French berets at a hat shop in the market, ate curry while sitting on the floor of a quaint restaurant, delighted in the charming red lanterns lining the streets, and took a class in what it was to be a geisha.

As she does with so many of my trips, Serendipity quietly acted as our guide, leading us to places not on our itinerary and putting people in our path that enriched our journey.

People like the waitress in the Osaka Hilton lounge who saw my disappointed reaction upon learning that it was too late to order a croque monsieur and ran across the hotel to their all-night kitchen and begged the chef to make her "most honored guest" her favorite sandwich.

And people like Mizuki, the salesgirl at a quirky little hat shop in the Kyoto Market, who searched every shelf until she found what she thought was "a most perfect hat." How did she know I, too, believe a beret is the most perfect hat for me?

And people like the cherub faced infant who stared at me with wise, obsidian eyes while his father toted him through Kyoto's wren of narrow streets...

...and the elegantly dressed elderly woman in traditional garb on the train from Arishyama to Osaka who patiently answered my many questions about Japanese traditions and culture...

...and the guitar maker who allowed us to peek into his workshop as he practiced his craft.

...and the dozens of schoolchildren who flashed us peace signs and then shyly covered their mouths with their hands as they giggled...

...and the pigeon-toed old woman who struggled to tote her heavy basket, laden with groceries, up a particularly steep street. Even though she was winded, she stopped to wave at us...

...and the lady in the soap and scents store who explained to us, in broken, tortured English, how she wakes every morning at five to make soap...

...and the old sailor, sitting on a rickety chair beside the river in Arishyama, who could not understand why the crazy blonde American would want to take his picture, but still, graciously, allowed it...

...and the bride who thanked me a dozen times when I told her I thought her cotton candy pink gown was one of the prettiest I had ever seen.

A few nights ago, just as I was getting ready to turn out the light and go to bed, something compelled me to check my email one last time. I clicked on my iPhone and discovered an email from a friend living outside Tokyo. She said a very strong earthquake had just shook her home. She said she was fine but very frightened. After I made sure my friend and her family were safe, I turned out the light and went to sleep.

Honestly? Since I have lived through hurricanes, tornadoes, volcanic eruptions and earthquakes, I wasn't that rattled by her news. I assumed it was a medium tremor that would end up as a blurb in the following day's news.

I have never been more wrong.

The earthquake was more than a medium tremor. It was catastrophic and the apocalyptic images of the destruction it created have horrified me.

Each time I watch a video of the wave tossing cargo ships about like toy boats in a child's tub, I cry.

I think of the cherub-faced child and the beaming bride. I wonder if they were kept safe from the disaster or if the earthquake shook apart their lives. I wonder if the elegant old woman on the train was washed away by a ruthless wave, or if she is warm and dry somewhere, watching the news reports and wiping tears from her weathered cheeks.

I think of the Marines at Iwakuni MCAS who helped us with our luggage; and how surreal it is to imagine them now frantically gathering supplies for the victims of the earthquake.

Suddenly, sadly, the world that once seemed so grand, so vast to a wide-eyed, eager-to-explore five-year-old, seems smaller, more fragile, and far more frightening.

If only the world could stay as safe and beautiful and glossy as it is when pressed between the pages of a National Geographic magazine.

HOW TO HELP JAPAN
MAKE A DONATION TO THE RED CROSS

On Being a Woman

2011-03-09T10:46:00.000-08:00

Today, a woman who has influenced millions of malleable mademoiselles celebrates her 52nd birthday. With her quiet but changeable nature, she has shown girls around the world how to try on different personas in their journey towards self-discovery. Sexy, sassy, sweet, confident, career-driven, demure, domestic. She's been it all!

You might have already guessed that I am not talking about a real, flesh-and-blood woman but a plastic, mammary-enhanced doll-woman. That's right, I am talking about Barbie!

The doll that has undergone more make-overs (and dye jobs) than Madonna, turns 52 today!

Becoming the most famous plastic woman in history has been no easy feat.

I'll be honest here, I wanted to share with you the heart-warming story of a lonely four year old who received her first Barbie. I wanted to tell you about how this only child, the product of a broken home, took one look at the little blonde doll and felt less alone in the world. But the truth is...I can't remember getting my first Barbie. I don't remember who gave her to me or what she looked like.
I can tell you what I do remember.

Barbie and the Silky Underwear

I remember making a Barbie Townhouse out of empty milk crates and filling it with the most groovy blow-up furniture ever (a Christmas gift from my aunt).

Evil Knievel Wind-up Bike

I remember how my BFF Bobby Oliver talked me into turning my world-trotting, uber-famous and chic journalist Barbie into a motorcycle stunt woman by tying her to his Evil Knievel wind-up stunt bike (and the nasty, blackish wound she received to her right leg after she fell off the bike and skidded across the pavement).

And I remember the trouble I got into when I nipped a few pairs of my mother's knickers to make Barbie a silky new gown.

For me, Barbie is less about the memories and more about the lessons. (Note to self: Milk crates make sturdy but hideous abodes, daredevil antics can leave miserable scars, and no matter how they are fashioned, undergarments make lousy ballgowns. Cross architect, stunt woman, and couturière off my "Possible Careers" list.)

NOT my haircut, but close

My disastrous attempt at cutting Barbie's hair taught me that I was not destined to follow in the footsteps of my grandmother and mother by becoming a cosmetologist. Barbie's missing bangs (think Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music) and lopsided locks (Victoria Beckham's asymmetrical bob looked straight as an arrow compared to my botched attempt) proved to me that I lacked the talent (and desire) to become a hairdresser.

(More important, at the tender age of six, I unearthed a truth that is universally acknowledged by women world-wide: that a woman in possession of a good head of hair must cherish her stylist or run the risk of walking through life looking like a failed lobotomy experiment).

Barbie and Desire

The doll with the slanted, sultry gaze taught me another valuable lesson: She taught me how it felt to desire.

In the early 1970s, Mattel created a staggering assortment of Barbie paraphernalia, including lingerie, the Barbie Friend Ship (making it so much easier for Barbie to jet to Paris for the weekend), and the Ken and Barbie Disco Stage (for their sexy parties).

It was the Malibu Barbie Country Camper that really turned me on. Malibu Barbie and her suntanned friends, with their glasses and their towels, in the camper that included a kitchen and pop-out tent made my knees weak with desire. The moment I saw the commercial advertising that orange plastic love shack on wheels, I knew I had to have it.

Just as Barbie and her Camper taught me about desire, she taught me about denial and disappointment.

Despite my heartfelt pleas (read: incessant whining), my poor, two-job-working mother could not afford high-falutin Ms. Malibu and her camper. So I was left with my boring, old, regular Barbie, a shoebox with empty toilet paper tubes taped to the bottom, and my dreams of a carefree life on the open road.

The Country Camper Debacle was painful but it taught me an invaluable lesson on desire and denial and disappointment. It's true, you don't always get what you want, but the clever girl does not let her coveting consume her. She finds away to reach her goal or she rolls on. (Trust me, having worked as a professional writer and aspiring novelist for twenty years now, watching my peers succeed where I have yet to achieve, I know a thing or two about desire and disappointment.)

I thought I had gotten over my need for real wheels and accepted the shoebox motorhome life had handed me, and then my best friend Tina Struffalina called to tell me her dad had bought her the Malibu Barbie Country Camper and all its accessories!

"You have to come over and see it!" she chirped.

With a melange of sophisticated emotions churning inside my undeveloped chest (excitement, envy - to name but a few), I loaded my Barbie goodies into my red plastic milk crate and lugged it the four blocks to Tina's house.

It's been 35 years since that summer day in Ohio, but I can still see Tina sitting on a checkered blanket on the thick grass in her backyard, a ridiculous smile plastered across her freckled face as she clutched the camper to her chest.

Oh how I coveted Tina Struffalina and her Malibu Barbie Country Camper! (Ironically, my husband has wanted to buy a camper for twenty years now and the only thing that has stopped him is me and my high-falutin' dreams of vacas spent at the Hiltons in Paris and Rome. Hopefully, he will not read this blog post and discover my long held, shocking secret: I once coveted a camper)

I was so pea-green with envy, I ended up picking a fight, gathering my Barbie belongings back into my milk crate, and stomping home, tears streaming down my face.

Who needed stupid old, fart-face Tina Struffalina and her Malibu Country Camper anyway? I didn't even like going over to her pretty, two-storied house with the kitchen stocked full of all the expensive food my mom could not afford (like Nestle Quik and Vienna Finger cookies). And her stupid brother who rode bikes with her and her mom who was always there.

I didn't realize it then, wouldn't realize it for years to come, but I envied Tina for far more than her Malibu Barbie Country Camper. I envied her for her seemingly normal, stable life with a mother and father. But perhaps this is a story for another day.

Today, we should just focus on Barbie and what her birth has meant to millions of little girls everywhere!

I would love to know what you think about Barbie. Do you have a special Barbie memory? Do you still have your first Barbie doll? Do you think it is good for girls to play with Barbie? Does it help them to develop their ideas on what it is to be a woman or does it pervert their budding views on sexuality and gender roles?

Get the scoop on Barbie:

The first Barbie wore a black and white zebra-striped swimsuit (Victoria's Secret offers a similar suit in their catalog this year).
Mattel sold 350,000 Barbie dolls the first year.
Barbie's real name is Barbara Millicent Roberts and she's from Wisconsin, not California (Shocking but true!).
Barbie has over a MILLION Facebook fans!
Ken and Barbie broke up on Valentine’s Day in 2004 after being together more than 43 years (After the recent Toy Story movie, some speculate it was because Ken was in denial about his sexuality, but the truth is he stole Barbie's Malibu Country Camper and ran off with her little sister Krissy. They are living in the camper, down by the river in Menominee, Wisconsin. Fortunately, our bright, forward-thinking Barbie has Ken sign a pre-nup before their wedding.)
Happy Birthday Barbie!

Further Reading:

My Norman Roots - Part II

2011-03-02T09:28:00.000-08:00

(Editors Note: This is the second installment of a two-part article. If you would like to read the first installment, please click here.)

The Hospitality of a Comte

Chateau de Bouceel

Reluctantly, I departed Mont Saint Michel and headed inland. I had made a reservation to spend a few nights at Château de Boucéel, an 18th century chateau that operates as a bed and breakfast.

I felt a jolt of excitement as soon as I turned down the long, tree-lined drive and again when I gazed upon the impressive chateau with the steeply-sloped mansard roof, curved pediment, and tall windows. The neatly clipped lawn, white painted footbridge spanning the pond, and the charming outbuildings stirred my writer's imagination, but it was what I discovered inside Château de Boucéel that made a lasting impression on my romantic soul.

I had barely stepped onto the gravel drive when the front door opened and a tall, nattily dressed man with aquiline features rushed out to help me with my bags.

He identified himself as the Comte de Roquefeuil and welcomed me to his home.

He ushered me inside the chateau and then took me on a tour of his home, proudly pointing out special antique pieces (including a framed letter from the family of Marie Antoinette and a Louis XV homme debout). Then he showed me to the my bedroom, a opulent room with french doors, paneled walls, a parquet floor, fireplace, and a luxurious bed set into an alcove with ceiling to floor drapes.

Later, I met the Comte in the library. I sat close to a crackling fire and peppered my gracious host with questions about the history of his family and their chateau. He patiently explained that his family had been the owners of the estate for hundreds of years and that it had survived revolutions, wars, and natural disasters.

He admitted that being the heir to such an estate was a duty and a privilege; that he would do everything in his power to manage and protect the chateau and its historic outbuildings so that future generations could visit it.

I couldn't help but admire his noble cause, his willingness to sacrifice to preserve his ancestral home.

(If you would like to read more about the Comte and his remarkable ancestors, please read my article Epic Romances)

A Taste of Brandy

In a small roadside barn a short drive from Château de Boucéel, I took my first sip of Calvados, an Apple Brandy that has been produced in Normandy in some variation since the 8th century. Monsieur Hubert, a charming elderly gentleman with a jaunty scarf knotted at his neck, greeted me with a smile as warm and a manner as smooth as the drink he proffered. When I confessed it was my first taste, he raised his weathered hands.

"Arrêt," he implored. "Please allow me to tell you a little about the drink so that, when you take your first sip, you will savor it all the more."

Monsieur then spent the next half hour explaining the history and complicated distillation process of the fermented fruit drink that was once called eau de vie de cidre. He said that there were over 200 varieties of apples that could be used in the production of calvados - bitter, sweet, sour - and that each producer uses their own mixture. He proudly showed me the heavy oak barrels where the pressed cidre ferments for a minimum of two years. He ended the lesson by showing me the thick green bottles sealed with crimson wax and urging me to buy one for drinking and another for baking. Grateful for his lesson and hospitality, I complied, though I had no idea what I could possibly bake using Calvados.

Serendipitously, later that trip I found a recipe in a cooking magazine for Fuji Apple Calvados Spice Cake with Cream Cheese Frosting.

Today, when I am fortunate enough to have a bottle on hand, I like to use some of the brandy when sautéing a pork roast or to make a cream sauce with apples and bacon to accompany roasted chicken.

Le Marche

Basket weaver

As she often does during my travels, Madame Serendipity intervened in a most unexpected, but most delightful way.

I had spent the morning tromping around crumbling castles and was anxious to return to my grand boudoir in the Chateau de Bouceel, when a series of wrong turns delivered me to a quaint market in the heart of a Norman fishing village.

My French born grandmother once told me that if a visitor to France truly wanted to acquaint themselves with the people of a particular region, they simply had to visit le marche.

Norman Fishmonger

"You know baby, it ees not a coincidence that all markets are found in the very center of a town. The market ees the heart of a town, you see?"

By the time I found a parking spot on the outer edges of the town and walked back to le marche, gray clouds as thick as flannel had rolled across the sky and a light, persistent drizzle had driven away the fickle and light-weight shoppers. I must confess, I brushed my limp locks from forehead and shivered inside my trench coat, I considered saying adieu to le marche.

Tea for sale

But the first stall I came to had big glass apothecary jars filled with tea and the kind man behind the counter offered me a sample of his Provence blend, a black tea infused the aroma and flavor of roses.

I held the small cup close to my face and let the tendrils of deliciously scented steam tease my nose.

I learned that the man selling the tea came from a long line of tea growers, that his great-great-great-great grandfather operated a tea plantation in Ceylon (now Sri Lanka) and his great something or other (Even though I was very interested, by this point, I was having a difficult time keeping up with his rapid-fire French and the long walks and warm tea were making me a bit drowsy) sold tea to Queen Victoria (or made tea for Queen Victoria...or dressed like Queen Victoria every time she drank tea).

Artisan Tea

Just as I did that gray day, I have wandered off course in the recounting of this tale. The tea seller's family tree, multi-branched and fascinating as it may be, is really not the point.

Like the Comte, Cristophe, and Monsieur Hubert, the tea seller seemed to embody what I had come to admire about the Norman people: they have a deep respect and appreciation for tradition.

In this hectic, harried, hurried-up, changeable world, where we're always looking for the next best, new-and-improved gadget or gizmo, it's kinda nice to meet people who don't worry about bottom-lines, cutting corners, or modernizing. People who complete a task in a certain way simply because that's the way it was always done.

People who spend their days making omelets following a 120 year old recipe or weaving wicker baskets or hand picking apples for fermented cidre or blending rose petal tea...

Further Reading:

My Norman Roots - Part I

2011-02-27T22:53:00.000-08:00

Leah, on a tidal flat near Mont St-Michel

When I first visited Normandy in 2005, I already knew my family had strong ties to the region...

My grandfather was one of the 160,000 Allied troops to storm the beaches of Normandy on June 6, 1944. Although Gramps wielded the most influence on me in my formative years - I even lived with him for awhile - I know very little about what he experienced that day. In truth, he only spoke to me about it on one occasion; an off-handed remark that has burned itself into my memory and haunted me for over thirty years. I am sorry to say that what he did tell me is not available for public consumption. What I can tell you is that it left such a powerful, indelible mark on my psyche that when I visited Normandy all those years later, I felt a powerful connection with the place.

But this is not a travelogue about the battlefields and blood-tinged beaches of Normandy; it is about the people I met and places I toured that made the northern, coastal region of France one of my favorite places to visit.

Poulard Hotel, c. 1888

The Forty Dollar Omelette

At the urging of my mother, Mont Saint Michel was one of the first sites I visited during my tour of Normandy.

"You must spend the night at La Mère Poulard and order one of their omelets," she said, in that commanding tone that is unique to mothers and requires one, no matter the age, to obey.

Of course, at the time, I had never heard of La Mère Poulard and knew nothing of her world-famous, gravity defying omelets, but my mother said to go, and so...I went.

Mont Saint Michel is a rocky, tidal island located in the English Channel. The religiously inclined have been making pilgrimages to the island for hundreds of years. Today, tourists make pilgrimages there to tour the medieval Benedictine Abbey...and to have one of La Mère's fluffy omelettes.

Charming Red Awnings

I could not have avoided La Mère, even if I tried. Situated almost at the entrance to the medieval city, the hotel-restaurant is one of the first buildings one encounters after walking through the gates. (The mouth-watering aromas of sweet, bubbling butter and eggs cooking over a wood burning fire beckon the weary traveler even before they breech the gates)

Courtyard of the Abbey

I was shown to a charming, slope-roofed room with panoramic views of the channel. To my delight, if I leaned out and looked up and to the right, I could see the spires of the Abbey piercing the cloudy sky.

After an arduous and steep climb to the monastery and then back down to the village, I was exhausted and absolutely ravenous.

La Mere's Dining Room

I sat in La Mère dimly-lit dining room, surrounded by framed, autographed images of such luminaries as Ernest Hemingway and Yves Saint-Laurent, and waited for the infamous omelette to be prepared. While I waited, I chatted with Cristophe, La Mère's charming, witty manager, who told me about La Mere herself. Apparently, Annette Poulard began making giant omlettes because they were an inexpensive way to feed the many pilgrims who flocked to her hotel during their visit to the island.
Today, the chefs use her recipe and method of preparation. Norman eggs and sweet butter, whipped until they are high and frothy, then baked in a copper skillet over a roaring wood fire.

Cristophe told me about some the legends associated with the island. (Did you know that Hitler ordered the island bombed, but when his pilots got close to the island a thick fog rolled in and obscured their view? Since it has been a clear, sunny day, some believe the island was spared through Divine Intervention. Did you also know it is said that anyone who makes the pilgrimage to Mont Saint Michel is destined to visit again?)

Regular readers of On Life, Love and Accidental Adventures might remember Cristophe from an article I posted a year ago titled Crazy Dog People. For those of you who only just stumpled upon my blog, be sure to take a moment to read the hilarous comments Cristophe made about dogs.

My hunger for good food and lore had been so completely satisfied, I barely winced when I was handed the check and saw that sampling Poulard's gastronimical oeuvre had cost me forty dollars!

Later that night, I nestled in my bed in my cozy attic room, listening to the wind howl through the ramparts outside my window, and tried to decide which memory from my stay on the island I would carry with me and treasure the most: the memory of my first bite of an utterly delicious omelette that had been prepared using a 120 year old recipe or the memory of spending an enjoyable hour learning about about Norman legends from a gracious Norman.

(Please check back next week for My Norman Roots - Part II)

Further Reading:

After the Gloaming

2011-01-20T22:10:00.000-08:00

If you are a regular reader of my blog, you might have formed the opinion that I am a person who is quite comfortable waxing poetic about the things I love (life, romance, and serendipitous adventures).

You would be correct. (I knew you were a cut above the average blog reader for Life, Love, and Accidental Adventures seems to attract those in possession of mammoth intellects and discerning tastes)

Metaphorically speaking, I have lobotomized myself on this blog and allowed you, my gentle, treasured reader, to take an up close and personal look at the brain of Leah Marie Brown.

I have confessed how I get turned on by tubers and told you about my schnoodle, Molly Muffin, aka the Girl With Balls. Recently, I shared the details of my early morning encounter with a brave mentally-handicapped young man named Tommy Tough Guy and my decision to stop allowing regret to be the tether that tied me to the past and kept me from the future.

I have shared with you the details of my travels, dreams, fears, and pastry obsession.

You would think that someone who talked, talked, talked as much as I do, would be perfectly comfortable with shameless self-promotion...but I am not.

Honestly, I feel a little twinge of discomfort when I am plugging one of my articles or something else I have sold.

Which is why it is taking me so long today to really get to my point.

THE MAMMOTH BOOK OF SCOTTISH ROMANCE is now available for sale. In case you are new to my blog or suffered a conk on the head that erased your memory of Leah Matters, my story, After the Gloaming, appears in this romance and adventure filled anthology.

I hope you will order this book (I do not get royalties, so this is not a pathetic attempt to raise the scratch for another European jaunt) and read After the Gloaming.

Please let me know what you think about my short story. And if you send me a photo of you holding the book, I will place it on my website and send you a bookmark autographed by two of the authors featured in the anthology.

TWO? Yes, that is right. Two, not one.

Elle Jasper, a talented author and one of my best friends, wrote a thrilling short story titled Curse Me Wicked (don't you love when an author uses the word wicked? I do! Once, I was in England with Elle, and we stopped at this bed and breakfast and the owner said...Wait! I digress. Click here if you want to read the rest of that story)

Anyway, I hope you will read Elle's story too because it is fantastic (and it will make me feel a little less guilty about plugging my story).

Just in case you forgot (or are too tired to scroll up), the title of my short story was After the Gloaming and the book is The Mammoth Book of Scottish Romance.

There. Shameless promotion done.

OUCH! (That was a twinge of discomfort. Don't worry though, the pain has already passed)

Thanks for reading!

Bonsoir Paris

2011-01-11T21:07:00.001-08:00

Welcome Paris
Originally uploaded by Marc Benslahdine | Photography

I arrived in Paris just before the gloaming,
and found her sensuously bathing in
the amber rays of dusk.

She greeted me without shame or timidity,
spreading her Rubenesque arms wide and beckoning me to slip into her embrace.

I complied, willingly,
and soon found myself lost
in the golden haze of rapture.

The Power of Words

2010-12-31T12:19:00.000-08:00

This blog is dedicated to my wonderful son, who, at fifteen, has already suffered wounds inflicted by sharp-tongued and petty-minded faux amis. I hope my words and love encourage you to develop armor that allows you to ignore the thoughtless minions. For you, my son, are a prince.

Whatever you say to me, comes out of you and has very little to do with me. Virginia Satir

I've been wanting to write a blog about the impact words can have on a person for months now but couldn't find the right...well...words to convey my thoughts.

Until this morning.

I was making pâte à choux for tonight's meal (It has become a tradition in our family to eat fondue for dinner and eclairs for dessert on New Year's Eve). I was incorporating the eggs into the flour/butter/water/sugar mixture when an unpleasant memory crept into kitchen and attempted to foul the otherwise savory moment.

It was June, 1996 - the summer after Kevin and I had eloped- and we were in South Weymouth, Massachusetts (his hometown). Since we had met in a foreign country and courted in a state on the opposite side of the country, it was the first time I had visited his home and met his siblings. I was in my early twenties and suffering from a sad lack of confidence. Having come from a broken home, I was completely intimidated by his seemingly Leave It To Beaver family. I was in awe of the easy way they all seemed to get along, their boisterous and intimate conversations, and the conventional composition of their family.

I feared I - the round peg - would not fit in their square environment.

As history would prove, it was not an irrational fear (but that's a topic for another blog posting).

It was during one of the boisterous family discussions that I felt the full painful impact of another's unkind words.

Somehow the flow of conversation drifted to the topic of baking. I volunteered that I enjoyed baking, especially French pastries.

A male in-law who had attended a culinary institute narrowed his eyes and asked, "Which pastries do you bake?" (I might have imagined he emphasis, but I think not)

I said I liked to make pain au chocolat, beignets, and eclairs.
"Eclairs? You make eclairs?"

I nodded.

"I assume you use a cookbook." (It was a statement, not really a question)

I explained I actually used a family recipe.

Putting me on the spot, he asked me to recall the recipe step-by-step.

Intimidated but eager to impress, I tried to recall my grandmother's recipe. I faltered. I floundered. I flubbed. Rather than be gracious or sympathetic, this man humiliated me. He ridiculed me.

With an eclair recipe tested and honed by my French-born Grandmother, I had the serious street cred to eviscerate my officious and pretentious culinary-inclined foe amis. But there was one thing missing from my arsenal to allow me to come out of the verbal skirmish unscathed: the armor of confidence.

All of those clever quips that my fertile mind has since given birth to, failed to materialize on my tongue. I reddened and remained silent. The conversation flowed on, leaving me sputtering with shame and struggling to keep my head above water.

Occasionally, I would remember the insult and consider concocting a sweet recipe for revenge. This morning, as I made the pâte à choux for the family I adore, I realized I have served my dish of revenge. By exorcising the demon that has plagued me every time I have made eclairs for the last twenty years, I am vanquishing my enemy. By not letting his snarky words stop me from making and sharing a recipe I love, I have had my revenge.

From now on, when I make my grandmother's eclairs, I will not conjure up the ghost of that haunting memory but will recall the dozens of happier memories connected with the pastry. Memories of the way my friends Lori Bacon, Kathy Galloway and Stephanie Gaveau Mounts (yes, she's French born) squealed when I would present them with a plate of my eclairs. Memories of teaching my daughter to make the vanilla bean flecked pastry cream. Memories of my son's beaming smile as he licked the chocolate glaze from his fingers. And memories of all of the fabulous eclairs of have eaten at patisseries around the world (including Stohrer, a shop that once made eclairs for Marie Antoinette).

And I will remind myself that my arrogant, unkind in-law used his words to make me feel small and humiliated instead of welcomed and cherished. As a result, he's missed out on me (and my eclairs).

Clearly, I won that match.

It was as I was piping the cream into the baked pastries that I realized there was a bigger lesson to be learned here. For nearly twenty years, I carried around the pain caused by my thoughtless in-law's words. What a ridiculously unnecessary burden! It was the same as if I had gone on a trip, exited the plane, walked to the baggage carousel, and instead of claiming my bags, attempting to take possession of my bags and a stranger's bags!

We can't control what offal spews from the mouths of others, but we can control how much (if any) of it we scoop up and cart around.

From now on, when some thoughtless minion attempts to poke me with his barbed words, I will remember I am wearing an armor forged of hard-earned, well-honed confidence. Confidence as tough as Tugsten. Confidence that is impervious to such trifling jabs.

I will remember that I do not need to carry their baggage. After all, my bags may be an entire suite of fabulous pink leather Louis Vuitton, but they are the only ones I am required to carry. I am leaving those other battered trunks on the carousel!

We must not allow other people's limited perceptions to define us.

Virginia Satir

Cure for the Blasé Traveler

2010-12-14T13:12:00.000-08:00

There are many dangers associated with travelling the world. One can become a victim to illness, injury, crime or a myriad of other unforeseen tragedies.

We've all heard about the infamous pickpockets of Italy who prey on unwitting foreigners as they gaze in awe at the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, the frequent shark attacks along the Great Barrier Reef, the kidnapping of tourists in Mexico, and the frightening bird flu epidemic in China.

And the media has terrified us with their relentless stories of plane crashes, tour bus crashes, airport shuttle crashes, helicopter crashes, lost luggage, stolen luggage, misdirected luggage, cancelled flights, overbooked flights, hotel fires, car bombs, volcanic eruptions, tsunamis, blizzards, capsized ferries, and insufferably rude Parisians.

There is one danger, however, that is rarely reported.

One of the least-known but most-insidious risks of frequent travel is the potential for the sojourner to become disenchanted.

Without even knowing it, a traveler will trade her rose-colored glasses for a pair with an unbecoming jade-tinged hue. In other words, she becomes blasé. Her senses saturated with the spectacular sites she beheld, she becomes bored and difficult to impress.

Let's face it, when you have stood in the shadow of the Eiffel Tower or scaled the Great Wall of China, Disney's Epcot can seem rather banal.

Believe me, it causes me no small amount of shame to admit that I have become disenchanted with the most Magical Place in the World. If I am going to spend $6.50 for a beverage, I would prefer it to be a hot chocolate at a cafe in Bruges and not a Coke at the Plaza Ice Cream Parlor on Mainstreet USA.

Before a horde of Mouseketeers write and accuse me of being a rodent hater, let me just say: I love Mickey and Minnie. Indeed, some of my favorite vacation memories with my family are centered in the Magic Kingdom.

That being said, I would take Tahiti over Typhoon Lagoon and Europe over Epcot any day of the week.

So what's the anecdote? How can you stop yourself from becoming a world-weary, jaded traveler.

The trick is to nurture your sense of wonder, remind yourself to be grateful for any experience, and remember with each trip to add at least one fantastic memory to your suitcase for the return trip home. All seasoned travelers have a case crammed with marvelous memories. I call mine my Portmanteau of Pleasure or my Bag of Bewilderment. It's my collection of my most special souvenirs

I have gathered a prodigiously sized portmanteau full of precious, wondrous travel memories and I call upon them to remind myself of my many blessings and of the awesomeness of this world.

I searched around in my trunk and found a dazzling one to share with you, my beloved reader.

Several years ago, on a warm night in September, I sat in the gardens of Versailles and watched in awe as fireworks whizzed through the sky over the palace. The fireworks were the grand finale for the Fêtes de Nuit, a unique show that combines fireworks, classical music, light and water effects, and a legion of period-correct costumed actors to tell the story of a day in the life of the Sun King.

I watched as the curtains on the king's sumptuous state bed were parted to reveal a yawning and stretching Louis. I watched a hive of courtiers swarm around Louis as they conducted his lever (morning/rising ritual to include removal of the royal chamberpot, presentation of holy water, and delivery of the missal). I watched, slack-jawed and wide-eyed, as the king mounted his horse and rode off to hunt with a dozen of his closest companions, trumpets blaring and hounds yapping. (Yes, they were real horses and real hounds)

I watched alabaster statues suddenly come to life and begin dancing as Lully's Baroque tunes echoed through the garden.

And, finally, I watched the coucher du roy (the nightly rituals associated with putting the king to bed).

By the time the fireworks exploded and the light from the strategically hidden lasers skipped across the waters of the Neptune Fountain, I was in a dream-like state. I felt as if I had traveled through time and was a special guest at one of the Sun King's soirees.

It was with great reluctance, and the acrid scent of gunpowder still staining my nose, I joined the exiting crowd and reentered the world of modern day Versailles.

I recently learned of a new Illuminations Display taking place on the grounds of Versailles. This one is dedicated to Marie Antoinette and is held in le Hameau, her private, rustic retreat near the Petit Trianon. How I would like to witness this spectacle. Unfortunately, my funds are limited so I will have to content myself by watching the video below.

I hope you enjoy the video and have a Marie Christmas!

For More Information:
On the daily life of Louis XIV read: Memoirs of the Duc de Saint Simon